.
Just hold on a second just down in the hall,
Where there's a painting I'm hanging,
Down halls from the tropic of a carcinogens label,
A corner holds,
Where I'm learned in Chinese algebra,
Holdouts and handouts on to seconds,
My baggage,
She's chained to my bunk.
I'm two feet one hand no eyes down the hall,
Heavy and painted yellow bars,
That shake like nerves,
Stammering, she said I am the one mumbling,
Shake like nerves all nervous-like,
Shell shocked somewhere between,
A count to sixty seven, sixty eight.
And a fist full of good nights.
Whistling the tune from fist full of dollars.
I'm leaning here, Leone style.
Look at me when I'm not talking to you!
No, I'm made of children and Simon is still saying,
Prying pied pipers in Hamlin,
Maudlin, maybe,
But I done learned something else now,
I learned those moments like new words,
Versed in one moment,
No future or past or present or nuthin',
Just do me a doorway to dark fill with a light-drinker,
His face is the whole shadow,
Looks like a pillow from what you cannot see,
Sings about ten years when he can't jump from this open door,
Holds back the upside down land in blue lights down that river,
The shoulders wanted to leap out,
But the elbows stopped him,
You better grow him hands to hold,
So we can pole-scratch some names into them,
Let it get all-filthy with squashed yawns and those frayed folds,
On red-gone-pink bank notes.
No soul left on either shoes that aren't shoes,
Call them sandals, not thongs,
Take this sentence slow as to not confuse one accent for slights,
Of hand,
Take a mouse pad and grow him a full story,
One eyebrow raised,
Up into the sleaziest of my moments,
So I can now pluck at the best of these and compare,
The length of our chin hairs,
To times spent with a light-head,
Hanging out a train doorway,
While I'm moving.
We're wrapped in plans,
And parts to play in them,
Staging the world in stages,
If it ain't on the page...
Then it's off the wall,
And I threw the fucker out the window.
Like its yet another block of concrete between these bars,
Another man wrapped in calls for food,
Another scuff mark stitch lost pull it with your teeth till the toes start hurting,
Another infection not healing thumbing a thimbleful of puss on a thrum,
Past another scab sacrificed to hairs on my shin,
Another glance to avoid,
Another light switch that don't work so good,
Another accent that hides words in cadence,
Alien.
Same place I hide the direct answer with the vague nod,
Another village that started with K,
And ended in sweat,
Some half-warm warning of a light threat,
You lose your cool,
And we'll take your life too,
Minute.
All in this vast space called a second,
All sounding like rattles of gauges,
All like pretending I know what you mean,
Like I have an audience in palm trees,
Like you fuckheads found something lost in the lines above,
Like I haven't crossed over,
Lines of control,
Into a vicious caricature of some old joke about existentially bad grammar school kids.
Wankers.
What I wouldn't give for one,
What I wouldn't,
Would that I was right out the window with a string of paper cups,
Or newspaper greased with pools of samosa fat,
Or sleeping across on a timescale that weighs in,
On a conversation that is long over,
Some embarrassed eye rolling you can smile to,
And then take you seat, please,
Sir.
Just shut the fuck up,
I heard the banana tree say,
But he wasn't talking to me though,
It was some message to pass on, to my thirties,
Or to my social betters,
Or to whom this may concern.
That tree wasn't talking to me,
Because I got a plan, like Cylons,
Revolving around doors and continental shifts.
Not stiffs in boxes,
Waiting for their plots,
To be dug.
But that's way under budget and I'm picking this conversation up,
I'm saying nah man,
I could gag her reflexes with plastic cup coffee,
Before she could tie a tourniquet round my eaten away finger tips,
With string from the last teabag.
Just shut the fuck up.
Is what the plant said, to the man with a plan,
And I'll pass that on.
I'm one of the few to break the curfew,
Like fuck, I know what time it is yeah,
And, yeah, I would have called,
But calling out for you,
And your anyone,
Is like cashing in this fat chance,
And I'm over-weighting in, not broke yet,
I've been dropping kilos like they could have just fallen out this door,
For the value of ...a few dollars more.
That is what I'll whistle next,
I'm gonna-be-have-been, up all night,
That's what you get for being born yesterday,
I'm don't want to sleep,
That moody bitch,
And sleep don't want to sleep with me,
Neither.
But I'll cum quietly,
I won't make a scene,
It won't make me either,
But from what the trees say,
This urban decay,
If you don't stare at them overhead wires,
In the middle of nowhere long enough to forget the urine you do smell,
And the sound of people you keep awake thinking,
Incessant,
Then you will never understand,
Why I can't explain,
This new understanding.
One word, first word, one syllable, first syllable,
Ummm...
Sounds like some future that looks like nothing compatible in the old format,
And the thread you will need to sow up that corner torn hole in the side of my arm,
Won't fit through the hole in your needle.
Because I'm a prick.
And you, are a corked-bored,
And we're all just some clumsy motherfuckers when you need these two hands,
To grip and the room won't stop rocking,
Not in that fun way,
Over even,
My way.
More like rocks without rhythm,
Some convulsive-retarded spasms bend-and-unbend to your knees,
Not much better than the way I try dance to reggae,
Three kneecaps, one love,
Hair everywhere, and sweat, and stains,
Keep forgetting to smile in case I was being looked at,
In that music I'm all thumbs, all mouth, all night.
All night, long.
As long,
As that might end up being,
Being, that it is tonight.
But you don't know that,
...unless you're down that hall,
Calling me back,
Watching me for hearing something,
Anything... please, I hear it.
You want to see it?
It's all there, idiot,
Facing out the open door,
Idiot,
Written all over my back.
_____________________________________________________
So I had a little time to kill in Bangalore, and I'm reading Henry Miller's "Tropic of Capricorn", blame him.
-Peace
.
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