Dylan did not write songs they say
he picked them from the atmospheres
like ripe lime figs in October
Ginsberg saw Blake rising like a bearded phantom
he lost his mind
to the greater outside
where his mother's pain
stripped the skin from his wrists
he lay out there in the rain
howling for she who could not be
poems flowing in universal breath
many events have no explanation
to interpret them is already to lose them
often the only response is laughter
not a laughter which kills
but rather gives birth
which heals the lame
the screens which adorn our mobile prison walls
have too many words on them
too many images we cannot turn off
break them i say with feathered fists
let haloed saints dance on gilded shards
No comments:
Post a Comment