Listo H. Bedlam (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} basalisk) wrote,@ 2003-10-13 13:27:00 |
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Postcards from a cage
Maudlin - adj. Maudeleyen, (Mary)
1. Foolishly and tearfully or weakly sentimental.
2. Tearfully sentimental from too much liquor.
Let's see what's behind door number two please, Alex.
Last night I went to lunch with Kafka. Then dinner with Sartre. Left the bar - the poison wasn't touching me, I just pissed it right out - and sat in front of a church under the moon. I took my book and walked a bit. Found two foxes strolling through the city.
My date began.
The table lay out across the city. I stopped two yards from one of the foxes; we looked at each other. Minutes passed, and we walked on toward the entree.
In front of another church, we told our prayers, then sat down to lunch on what was in our pockets or in gardens. Then we moved on to the sorbet.
I sang some Tom Waits (I wish I was in New Orleans) to them, then we went to the soccer field. One fox on this side of the fence, one on the other.
I opened all the gates; I hate to see a couple parted. We walked to another church and said goodnight.
No one blew out the moon. No one cleaned off the table cloth. We'd had our date. Now the table could return to being a town. And I could be single once again.
I wrote 50 poems in my head - a sacrificial tome - didn't write down a thing. Now all I have left is an aftermath. Verses of bombed buildings. Footprints of soldiers who passed through my head, never put in ink. Blowtorch marks and refugees of odes. Every poem is war. I let most of today be a forgotten soldier.
Drank wine in a courtyard. Read some, smoked some. Sat at another church (for an atheist, I am very devout) and watched 5 layers of clouds spindle their fingers over the buttress. Sang my own choir. And felt correct at being alone.
I walked, and must admit, I felt very jaunty. Then caught my reflection in a store window; I looked like a funeral march.
Incorrect observations? I don't know. I've been alone for only two weeks, and I feel myself sliding toward what I wanted.
I am fascinated by it.
I am loving this fall; I hope it puts me where I wanted. Or, at least, close enough to pack up my bags, and walk to the oasis I thought I saw.
Maudlin Lake, Colorado. Sent care of another slave of emotion. It's a solemn occasion, with incorrect laughter and plenty of beer.
Maudlin - adj. Maudeleyen, (Mary)
1. Foolishly and tearfully or weakly sentimental.
2. Tearfully sentimental from too much liquor.
Let's see what's behind door number two please, Alex.
Last night I went to lunch with Kafka. Then dinner with Sartre. Left the bar - the poison wasn't touching me, I just pissed it right out - and sat in front of a church under the moon. I took my book and walked a bit. Found two foxes strolling through the city.
My date began.
The table lay out across the city. I stopped two yards from one of the foxes; we looked at each other. Minutes passed, and we walked on toward the entree.
In front of another church, we told our prayers, then sat down to lunch on what was in our pockets or in gardens. Then we moved on to the sorbet.
I sang some Tom Waits (I wish I was in New Orleans) to them, then we went to the soccer field. One fox on this side of the fence, one on the other.
I opened all the gates; I hate to see a couple parted. We walked to another church and said goodnight.
No one blew out the moon. No one cleaned off the table cloth. We'd had our date. Now the table could return to being a town. And I could be single once again.
I wrote 50 poems in my head - a sacrificial tome - didn't write down a thing. Now all I have left is an aftermath. Verses of bombed buildings. Footprints of soldiers who passed through my head, never put in ink. Blowtorch marks and refugees of odes. Every poem is war. I let most of today be a forgotten soldier.
Drank wine in a courtyard. Read some, smoked some. Sat at another church (for an atheist, I am very devout) and watched 5 layers of clouds spindle their fingers over the buttress. Sang my own choir. And felt correct at being alone.
I walked, and must admit, I felt very jaunty. Then caught my reflection in a store window; I looked like a funeral march.
Incorrect observations? I don't know. I've been alone for only two weeks, and I feel myself sliding toward what I wanted.
I am fascinated by it.
I am loving this fall; I hope it puts me where I wanted. Or, at least, close enough to pack up my bags, and walk to the oasis I thought I saw.
Maudlin Lake, Colorado. Sent care of another slave of emotion. It's a solemn occasion, with incorrect laughter and plenty of beer.
