i write
what they tell me to write
i take it all down
i accept it as it comes
aint no poetry
aint no reg-u-lar story either
just a feel
a need
a voice whispers
something
i try to hear it
im listening so hard
soon as i stop
the voice runs like a river
like no one you ever met
mr featherstone
containing his own contradiction
will he fall or will he fly ?
his burden is that he is his own opposite
within him 2 natures cancelled out
not just in a name
his desire to fly
his tendency to sink
the struggle for up
the pull of down
man + beast
living + dead
white + black
spirit + flesh
the feathery spirit
that can glide thru the astral like a falcon
at speed of thought
faster than light
lighter than thought
the stone-like flesh
weighing you down
oh you love it
and
you hate it
the need for other stone-like things
pinned in this continuum until it gives out
sourced in a vortex of gravity and intention
needing to decipher great quantities of information
strapped to the age i live in and its zeitgeist bastardry
a timid savage with spear and net
hunting down the last remnants of my own life
running willy nilly and helter skelter
the stone-like flesh
we sculpted with our deeds
the faces that show your kindness and blindness
the years which have meddled in your fine affairs
the seconds which undid the stone
one by one
each second
like a feather flying over stone, brushing it lightly
the seconds have eroded the stone
undone it has become
and the spirit then clings
to a number of things
things like all the stone memory
the world of pleasant flesh and wine and dreams
the hell of disease and bile and fever
the spirit forgets its feathers
the stone must break apart
the autumn stone
the winter almost over
the cold seeking stone miseries will be gone…they say
the stone masons chisel feathery angels wings
for one who will soon both down and up
for what is in your nature
the voices conclude
thats all for today