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| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 11-June 03:09:39 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 80628
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Jubilation
[time] => 2005-01-19 20:28:50
[hometext] => I wrote this about four am last night.....then i slept or tried to damn headaches.....always, abraham.
[bodytext] => Three dollars and a cup of coffee and I celebrate my life. My fingers ravenously tap at every letter my tears begin where love began a bold laceration across my flesh. I am still alive again I am still one piece one man afraid of the responsibility, afraid of the consequence. I bite my lip my thumb, run my tongue across the edge and blade of nicotine stained teeth. I jubilate at the very sense of existence, and I exist. I stare into a drawer crammed full of books and wires, a crumbling bible across the face of my poetry; it is the open wound that craves forgiveness, the best poetry I've ever read, the continual struggle of my own life; and I have forgotten the truth. I have seen a hundred dead. I have seen the blood my own blood unborn I have seen where truth begins, and i have seen the end. I celebrate life because I live. I jubilate at the infinity of the sky. Science inhibits me, science casts my dreams to dust. I concentrate, every cell of my skin aware of the pressure; every cell manipulated, ordained by the particles of the sun; every atom scattered across the sea the dust of my dust, the proper way for me. Do i elude you? Is this puzzle too much to ask? A riddle that cannot be seen. An answer already known to you; to me it is only the infinity, and more, the words that i can see. I can feel every syllable wrapping round my tongue, but the emotion, the stir of breath and love fall empty for me. It becomes more words. My life is made of words and I am in jubilation I am frozen in empty celebration. The dusty desk. The unmade bed, the stained box spring sitting on the floor the backpacks the books, the magazines, the M&Ms scattered in a desk drawer the scratched CD's the small, simple journal made for me by a friend I cannot see. Th TV the plastic chair. The dirty clothes scattered by the mirror the mirror bolted to the ugly, yellow wall the carpet the wood floor the nails the barren skin of shadow folding over my skin. What reason more do we need to celebrate our lives? What more to raise ourselves in jubilation. Not one day, but everyday. We are muscle bone blood and water we are beautiful in our mechanics; we stand for but one moment until we crawl back into the womb of the earth. Our lives are insignificant. Our lives are only a spectacle for the world to watch. When you fall fall laughing loud and touch the ground and sleep forever in the presence of the proud [comments] => 1 [counter] => 212 [topic] => 21 [informant] => iodinelove [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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