Drums always sounded like death to me,
good death,
the kind that would be remembered when my heart stopped,
and they found me up there,
in there with the distinct smell of the deceased
Me and my head high,
at least I was never a recluse and I knew that to be true,
at least I was comfortable with my love of the color black
This was a sickening blow to my plan to impress you all,
with my abilities to conform and not conform at the same time,
but, alas, with all the pressure and prestige,
I got too good at the disappearing act
My voice sounded like alcohol being poured,
like a corridor melting in the back--very back--synapses of your brain,
like death and birth at the same times,
and it was in defense of the skinny girl,
of the morbid girl,
of her, up there,
in there,
the window washer,
the window watcher who once presided over this dark parade---
Can there be good death. Death is an ending or maybe a beginning of sorts. But in death there is also life and a life is worth living to it's fullest.
ReplyDeleteUnique exercise. Enjoy the concept and the forced practice of a piece like this. Many lines are heartfelt ("drums always sounded like death to me, good death, the kind that would be remembered when my heart stopped") and some seemed underdeveloped ("...but, alas, with all the pressure and prestige, I got too good at the disappearing act"). But of all the stanzas, these lines felt the most sublime:
ReplyDeleteMy voice sounded like alcohol being poured,
like a corridor melting in the back--very back--synapses of your brain,
like death and birth at the same times