The Usual
The stink. The plink and clink, so rinky-dink,
Our winkless cries went down the kitch’n sink.
Oh, strum und drang. D’you know what you’ve done?
No time to weep, the trumpet calls us to — run!
And yet you pop and sigh in glee: my woe.
Your mind in the clang of madness, in angry throes-
No part is left of a once and feral heart,
No soul to honor love, of the deepest sort.
-E. Carere
I found a long lost poem; one I wrote at age... 21 or so.
And lest I lose it again (although I remember it when I sing):
ORACLE
ORACLOracle
| I walked numb and drunk to the oracle at Delphi that I might inhale Pythia's smoke and gaze into tomorrow I met a priest who drank the wine of wisdom he told me to go home but instead I stole his cup and the gods have grown bored with my possibilities I can tell by the way my prayers are left bleeding in the dust over the entrance to the temple an inscription reads Know Thyself I know my gods I can smell them on my hands I kneel at an altar made of rain but i want to be Athena babies in my oceanic belly gods of war sucking at my breast Oh, Oracle, do not leave me alone with the vanishing smoke ask of me something I can give but the Oracle does not ask it tells and in this darkness where I stumble I discover I do not know the question I want to ask |
