Posts Tagged Hell
Mahler adds a false drama to my winter afternoon.
I’m the bear who’s been torn to bits by the shotgun,
but I’m not. I’m the silent mouse, daintily crawling,
searching for approval, strangled by all of the thorns
of ice falling with aggression from the moldy brick
buildings. The scampering of the Mahler violins
makes me jump on top of the stale structures, and
the horns, the most powerful horns with the trombones,
they urge me to tear into the buildings with giant claws
made from plastic straws which never transport
the vanilla shake that helps fix my terrible moods,
but the buildings smash back at me at impossible
diagonal angles, shrinking me, forcing me to realize
who or what it is that I am. The man in the cafeteria
Speaks on the phone as if with his lover, and he’s
terribly ugly, but he creates life worth living, while I
pull the shards of ice out of my body, while Mahler’s lush,
glazed violins sing of unspeakably beautiful children, and
just before the children die, hope bubbles in my silent zones,
Trashed again by a man who is really a mouse, a parasite.
Learned not to diminish the hells of the Others.
Gratitude sounds like false dances
with prim and proper dresses.
Others cry forever.
Others are tired.
I have a chance today.
So do the Others.
I will keep searching for my soul.
Will search for purpose.
Will wrap chains around the bad shit.
Please, you people, the Others,
restore me to sanity.
Joyfully, hair stands large, shooting sparks across globes,
blowing by shocking blues of spring days,
smoking away death screens, running on top of galaxies,
like on treadmills. No grass, but towers of Lilacs like dinosaurs
stretching back muscles. Home. Unimaginable gift
for all of my devotion to the undisturbed?
Pushes of deep rivers in dark deserts,
Vibrations only, movement to kill Satan forever.
And what is Hell? I reign on tall fences rooting for
frantic love powering seas of hurricanes,
songs lasting forever and spiraling towards
soft fields that have been set on a table for heavens.
Music, shivers, my world, here. This is my place.
God put me in a stream made of electrical kissing for eyes,
nose, hands, and even tongues, but oh, Lord,
the sound, the beautiful sound.
I am not back yet, but I am on my way.
Home. Steal my blanket, burn it, stomp on it.
Satan has helpers who will not die. They make new blankets.
My crash comes at me, sledge hammer disgusted with
hating the world again, but it’s back heaviest.
I want to remember that one moment
when I thought I was getting better,
when the world was so good to me. Just a moment.
When I die, I will remember that moment,
struggling not to hate God for stealing it from me