deepundergroundpoetry.com
Old Age Plane.
I'm going to stop all the planes
to stop you from running away.
The Empire State Building cannot make you fly,
nor can the Eiffel Tower,
and no jump from the Tower Bridge will aid in your angelic agenda.
I'm going to stop all the planes,
as I visit our flat,
the photographs of times long since past,
the walls painted with a disposable white,
like the edges of our personalities.
I've never been to that flat,
a secretive venture you locked away in your head,
and crushed.
You drove a two ton Hummer into what was,
destroying all that's around you to force the rebirth of something you love.
The siren that you hear,
on the bank of the Thames will not scream your name any louder
if you commit your social suicide,
nor will the arch angel you bow to at night when sleep evades you.
I'm going to stop the planes,
so you can stop flying on your heroin sky,
like a phoenix on fire from a watery substance.
Will you pluck the feathers from the dove of peace
to convince yourself further your decisions are correct?
In what mentality does that make sense?
With which pestal and mortar did this siren crush your brains and focus and effortless perfection,
in your imperfection?
With which words did this arch angel bewitch the very darkness of your soul to convince you you were becoming pure?
Yet actually becoming self-righteous?
We live
and we die.
It happens.
Do not lose focus of the things that made you a phoenix in the night sky.
You never needed a plane,
a home,
a heroin sky.
You had it in the palm of your hand
and you're letting it go,
like the watery substance that set you on fire years ago.
I wonder, if years down the line, when this tale of woe has been written by another writer of the times
whether you will even remember your innocent, foolish state.
The way you looked at the world like a spread eagle vixen ready to be tamed,
or encouraged.
Raged,
the little nutcracker that knew your name since birth and loved you,
like my absent father, my lost sister,
my child
to form the blackest heart whom could do the most pure of things.
I forget, I forget the days where you would smile and the room,
with its masses of people,
would light up like chinese lantern outside my favourite take-away.
You're tired now,
the exhausted frame of an old man, and I whisper,
beneath the creaking of your rocking chair and softness of your slippers.
You aren't forgotten,
but lost,
at sea,
like a whale.
You never needed a plane.
The phoenix is dead.
The body is dead.
The cigarette is out.
The door left open.[/font]
to stop you from running away.
The Empire State Building cannot make you fly,
nor can the Eiffel Tower,
and no jump from the Tower Bridge will aid in your angelic agenda.
I'm going to stop all the planes,
as I visit our flat,
the photographs of times long since past,
the walls painted with a disposable white,
like the edges of our personalities.
I've never been to that flat,
a secretive venture you locked away in your head,
and crushed.
You drove a two ton Hummer into what was,
destroying all that's around you to force the rebirth of something you love.
The siren that you hear,
on the bank of the Thames will not scream your name any louder
if you commit your social suicide,
nor will the arch angel you bow to at night when sleep evades you.
I'm going to stop the planes,
so you can stop flying on your heroin sky,
like a phoenix on fire from a watery substance.
Will you pluck the feathers from the dove of peace
to convince yourself further your decisions are correct?
In what mentality does that make sense?
With which pestal and mortar did this siren crush your brains and focus and effortless perfection,
in your imperfection?
With which words did this arch angel bewitch the very darkness of your soul to convince you you were becoming pure?
Yet actually becoming self-righteous?
We live
and we die.
It happens.
Do not lose focus of the things that made you a phoenix in the night sky.
You never needed a plane,
a home,
a heroin sky.
You had it in the palm of your hand
and you're letting it go,
like the watery substance that set you on fire years ago.
I wonder, if years down the line, when this tale of woe has been written by another writer of the times
whether you will even remember your innocent, foolish state.
The way you looked at the world like a spread eagle vixen ready to be tamed,
or encouraged.
Raged,
the little nutcracker that knew your name since birth and loved you,
like my absent father, my lost sister,
my child
to form the blackest heart whom could do the most pure of things.
I forget, I forget the days where you would smile and the room,
with its masses of people,
would light up like chinese lantern outside my favourite take-away.
You're tired now,
the exhausted frame of an old man, and I whisper,
beneath the creaking of your rocking chair and softness of your slippers.
You aren't forgotten,
but lost,
at sea,
like a whale.
You never needed a plane.
The phoenix is dead.
The body is dead.
The cigarette is out.
The door left open.[/font]
Published 11th Jan 2011
| Edited 12th Jan 2011
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Anonymous
11th Jan 2011 4:29pm
This is a haunting and delicate piece, with a perfectly simple, sinister and punchy ending. Ripe with feeling and original.
11th Jan 2011 4:35pm
Thank you, Jack! I'm glad you thought so, I was humming it when I woke up this morning and had to write it down.
L.A.
11th Jan 2011 6:58pm
i feel like i've been faking almost everything i've ever written! you've got so much material, originality and description for your situations, imaginations and feelings and i like your random internal rhymes. well done. [:
11th Jan 2011 8:52pm
Thank you, Jestalessa! That's such a stunning comment I'm so glad you liked it, as I always am. Thanks again =]
11th Jan 2011 11:47pm
Lots of strong ideas here, lots of flavours to work through. You are coming on like a freight train, of late, and trains are good :-)
12th Jan 2011 00:13am
Thank you, Hemihead. That's such a lovely thing to say, *woo woo* - That's a train noise...no? Okay.. I'll go hide now :D
