Don’t install me in an ambient
I want kaleidoscope
Forgive me in an understanding
That I’m yet to come upon
This could have been my memory
Shaken from the slope
Dropping little apple
Fallen from the tree
Whisper late night
And be me and both again
For beginning with the smallest cloth
I woke up
And eleven seconds.
Tag: cloth
Broken Arrow Peddler (day 3139)
Ten shades of a broken arrow
Stretched across the sky
Moon and sun both couldn’t hide
So they raged, no dawn, no dusk.
A peddler man came walking down
In a suit quite unknown in that world,
Had two tones of gravity
Two handfuls of pure dirt.
In each promise the hook was set
Deeper and deeper it took
Just like moon and sun,
They raged, they raged, they raged.
The end became, the gone be gone
The rules left written down
Nailed to a city square post
Discarded cloth and plastic close by.
The moon became calm and laid away
A soft silver spoon for a tomorrow,
The sun, alert, smiled peacefully
And awoke children so sewn.
Looking For This (day 3035)
I am looking for this.
All of my efforts and truths
Are running in parallel with my actions.
I am calling to my inner self,
Feeling my bones rumble
At each swing I make,
Splitting my observations into fragments
That live long in the hearts of men
Who come and sit and talk.
Yet this action has no idle,
It bears resemblance to sweat
Breaking the cloth in toil,
For when the sun rises in the East,
Each drop of frost rises
Like the man I am looking for.
Tomorrow (The Double by Dostoevsky) (day 3000)
Tomorrow’s another day
Broken off and delayed
For a ghost has passed on through,
Spoken for a few.
And memory cannot pursue
What slanders overgrew
Like a lion amidst the chaos
He shall find the torn cloth.
What’s spoken could be mistaken
To proud to pass away
Unseen and unheard
Distance to a blockard
Dastardly and disheveled
To await another day.
Fever (day 2937)
I work now with a fever;
One single moment with my eyes closed
Produces an entire universe
That flickers before me,
Four seasons ten fold,
And a crystal blue sky
That wakes me with a smile
To tell me that I’m not alone today.
My nimble hands twist,
Grip, Dance,
And tighten around the wet cloth
Attached to my loins
Cooling the pitch
Of which I sing at.
Sheets and Tables (day 1938)
So then it opened
And all blasphemies
And horrors
Were spilled out
Upon sheets and tables
That forevermore
Reeked of lost innocence
Crunched by time’s cloth
Skivvies (day 1357)
I do the laundry because I’m a man,
Not because I’m told to do it
And not because my balls are held for ransom.
No, manliness is the epitome of style.
Style cannot exist without cleanliness.
The two are mutually inclusive events!
I fold sheets with perfect edges
And keep socks paired by elasticity.
My skivvies though, those shape accentuating
Pieces of gentle cloth – that hold tight
My prized pieces of manly nature –
Get tumbled and crumpled into my exciting drawer.