deepundergroundpoetry.com
Finger/tips
The most tragic
thing
is
the undelivered poem, like a capsized
message
in a
bottle, disintegrating
into a cold
pressure
&
timelessness,
reaching out into endlessness.
[Listening to “Imagine” on the piano…
I have this bar speaker system that is so wonderful…
You know…
I do rather like The Beatles…
I discovered them relatively late..? (like HS age)
I felt like I was the last to discover them…
[someone actually traded me a folder of CD’s
and there was so much music in there I was never exposed to…]
So… I had heard “Imagine”…
But I was in this jail holding tank right…
In solitary…
I smuggled a radio in… (I know… Me and my smuggling… :p )
Man… I hadn’t heard a radio in months…
I was living in a spider hole like Saddam for some months prior…
It’s… Kind of a crazy story… (haha)
So I am listening to the radio and “Imagine” comes on…
There is a perfectly square window, the size of a face...
At eye level…
A white light kind of sky…
I tell you…
I soared upon the wings of the song…
Into transcendence…
I was staring down the barrel of what I thought was going to be
a very very very long term…
Twas…
Well… There were other elements but
I will tell you…
There is some dark darkness, some cold coldness…
Beyond what can be really known at the surface of the consensus…
These are the dark secrets of existence…
Also… I was thinking of maybe starting work on a story…
:)
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