l.c. (nyodene_d) wrote,
l.c.
nyodene_d

  • Music:
i've been trying to find this damn poem for the longest time, and it turns out it's been sitting in the back of my car in a puddle of wine growing mold on it. i could still read it, but damn, it's so not worth the wait. i don't like it as much as i thought i did, even after a little revision. i wish i could find the most obscene poem that i've ever written. i bet i'd still like that...'cause i'm all evil now and what not. whatever- i'm still as fucking doe-eyed as ever, just bitter about it :P man, there is this stupid kid working in the math lab this term: he really gets on my fucking nerves: c****s or something like that. everytime i see him, whether it's from 2 or 100 feet he has to say hi to me and ask me some dumb ass question. i think he knows and enjoys the fact that it annoys the hell out of me, 'cause he's kind of one of those people who enjoys the fact that he annoys the hell out of everyone around him, and he gets louder everytime. anyway, enough venting, here's my poem:

the sphere at the bottom of the ocean

i am walking through an orange grove
down a green carpet–at a
large intersection i turn
left–i run for hundreds of miles
my panting in good slow rhythm
with the incessant uniformity of
my legs–i hear soft breaking and
snapping, like fallen cities, each time
my feet land and every three and a half
i breathe out–one two, in, three
and a half, out–my eyes are
red glass olives with wide black pits
and they see nothing but the
trees and the path and the sky merged
into a tunnel going on and on
like an endless telephone wire.

on this sempiternal day, this changeless jog,
i stop. i look up and see millions of miles away
green billowing smoke. i look
down and see a well worn path of
mud. the realization comes like a wind–
the green smoke are trees and i am traveling
inside a sphere.

i take a left, double the time, walk
for two hours, turn, walk for four hours, turn
walk for eight hours turn so that i am
spiraling, encompassing the sphere.
i leave the path.

under the blue shades of the trees there is
a thing called night–it is
peaceful as halcyons. fruit bows down
from the limbs while i lay in the
mist of stars. next to the dew-pond
lying between the roots, i wash the fruit of sunlight.
its skin is velvet and leathery,
leaving yellow scales across my palms.
its flesh soft and orange
spurting perfume into my face.
membranous sylphs spring from my
pours, licking me clean of scales and moisture–
i go naked and swim in the dew, and dry
hanging from the bark.
into a sleep i fly to the sun cradled
in a thin breeze–picking more fruit deep
within the leaves.
i open the fibrous flesh, spraying
luminescent-blue spirit, like electric water
that stains my fingers like blackberry juice–
it builds up under my fingernails and
enters my blood stream through
the capillaries–and i begin to glow,
filled with elation–i am a lightning bug
painting the interior lattice of branches with
golden highlights.
when i grow tired of basking in the dankness
of these moist green caverns, i climb to the top
and fly into the light above the canopy.

02/27/99 – revised (tried to salvage) 06/06/05
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