deepundergroundpoetry.com

Memory of Other Organs

One time that you looked at me
Anchors me to memory
I saw so much Ė how much did I make up?
Do you deny, are you in pain Ė
Did I see straight, this whole time have I been insane
And imagined feelings that never did reside?
From that one time stems a memory
That wonít let go of me,
A pothole in the past I canít pull my foot out of,
A hook on a line tugginí me all the time
Iíve gone blind to the goings-on outside
Though I move along with the flow
The way my life does go
But way back and behind
And on top of my mind
It lies unresolved,
A sentence without punctuation,
Half a thought spoken,
Dropped in a token, I twist, I wait
As I turn the handle
Itís hard to handle being up in the air
Playing to whatever goes on out there
While I donít care, deep under waiting for the click
And whatever goes on, I follow along,
I do my part, I lust, I thrust, I make art,
I work, I act kind, kind of like a jerk,
I find my peace of mind and then I regret it
Then over again the circles spin,
I pretend to be tied up but I am not
Except for one memory that has my core caught,
A momentís completion,
A ghost well I know,
Out of this world heís a visitor
Whom I bumped into as he was taking his tour,
Then drifted back into an unreachable plane
And I chased, but I knew it was in vain,
Hit against a wall, banged my fists in pain,
Extending to taste a foreign flavor
My earthly taste buds were not made for,
A taste I will not find running through countries,
The only taste for which I have a taste,
Gouged out my eyes, replaced with a light,
Now nothing I see lines up with whatís in me.
Nothing outside conforms to what I so certainly know.
Thereís a story, thereís a burn, thereís a lie from you
Am I making up the fact that something wasnít right?
Am I making up love? I know for certain
When I get excited, it is not love,
It never is love, now Iíll never confuse it
With the something I knew once, though I donít anymore,
Hear only an echo, canít let go, I try to loosen my grip
But my chest has a rip to which it is attached
íCause itís proof that I met my best friend once,
With no name, no game, no home, no form, no way to follow.
My world spins íround me (suppose we), hollow.
And only the core does matter;
The shapes outside donít mean a thing.
Whatís in a name? Absolutely nothing!
How does this rag change if I call it ďkingĒ?
You can be poor, mature, a child, inane, pious, tame;
But attributes, to me they all look the same.

07/25/11
PhantomPhace
Written by PhantomPhace
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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