stillfugue

The fur in the small brain curls

And twists and holds in a wrapped position.

The look down. The top of eyelids. The warmth of love.

 

There is a desire for running.

Run to the best but there is nothing to run to.

Nothing to run from because the fur will stick

With purple static.

Nothing to run from

In the rain-soaked, blacked-out jail.

Orange ceilings talk about holding still.

Floors knowing that there are no legs

With which to run.

Stuck in a dream.

The fur is itching the eyes and

There is no vision to behold life.

Hold still, the breath says.

Pull on the fur but there are no clumps.

There is no release.

 

Walk away and run to the park.

Can’t be alone in the park.

Need the dirty restlessness of the park.

Need the freedom.

But the rusty fur won’t stand for the park.

Matted with the fur

And it holds on like a cold, wet wool blanket.

Cannot run to and cannot run from.

 

Come pull toward the skies.

Pull the fur away in the wind

Fly in the wind.

Land and never lose the blasting static.

At the landing, no fur, no sewage.

No longer need to run.

At the landing, there is freedom.

It is peaceful to wear a blanket.

We can lie silently.

We feel each other’s inner furnace

And we are covered with a sweet fragrance.

 

But now, I cannot fly and I am stuck with my fur.

It falls out in clumps but it sticks to me like tar.

I bathe in tar and I know that it is real

That I will never run from this swamp

And there will never be anything to run to.

 

Love is the only thing,

But I am doomed to this rudimentary life

Of putting things together

When I have never been able

To fix one small thing.

I wonder if I can pull

And drown in my tar with fur shaking.