Sway With Me

Sway With Me

From the depths of my empty self,
A little verse has now come to tell itself
I wonder, if I can write without impressions,
Without the prudent forcefulness of desires,
For superstar perfection and stardom,
I’ll begin.

Unshaved, and lying in bed, the many days are passing,
And I watch my life slip through my toes, fingers,
I watch the same clockwork cut out,
Tick tock tick tock, toward my six feet under.
A better dream is set to come true,
In a few weeks, I think three or two
And yet, tick tock, tick tock,
I march in nonchalance and broken pride,
To my sweet six feet under.

The older you get, the verses change,
They behold no more color, no more stories,
Of ecstatic voyages into intricately threaded psychedelic splendor.
Now the verses drown deep into reflection,
And hey, I’m not even old yet.
Somehow still, I feel older than the stars.
Answerable to the invisible gods that bring monsoon,
And change winter to spring. I feel answerable,
To excuse myself before their perfect selves,
And ask them for forgiveness,
For the dump in which I’ve laid waste,
The endless possibilities of my mind and body.

A strange sleep has encumbered me,
Has come to remove the light from my eyes,
A sleep that feels like it will be victorious,
Over my final gasp for one last breath.
We change every day, like trees,
That rejuvenate themselves in Spring.
We are not simple people, simple persons,
With simple dreams or simple songs.
We are like trees that die in autumn,
Trees shaped tall, small, twisted, broken,
We are trees that die and fall,
And rise from the soil again.

Who is the real me?
The little child at three, looking up at the stars,
And finding no words to express its glee?
Am I the curious 12-year old,
Misunderstanding his sexuality,
Hoping to bury his head,
In every pair of breasts he sees
Being tough in school,
Trying hard to hide his embarrassment,
Of newly initiated masturbation,
And failed attempts at pornography
Am I the intelligent 18-year old,
Broken in love, and resurrected,
Seeking semblances of permanent sense,
In this strange world torn between spirit and science
Or am I this, this scarred young man,
Twenty- five but old, dancing in balance,
Between awe for women and misplaced misogyny
This young old man, drenched in extreme experience,
Fondling with boredom like with the tits of a whore
Heart racing at every opportune moment,
To rocket his soul into blinding euphoria
Which one am I?

Life races to nowhere, kindling only new feeling,
Breeding confusion, chaos, and candle-light delight,
In its subjects who carve its marvelous reflections
The purpose here is nothing but movement,
And we, confused children beneath the midnight moon,
Wage war against our ends with words and sonatas,
With triumphant symphonies and graduate degrees,
Sparing no second to let the thought of our deaths,
Suppress us into silent melancholies

We are the children of the sky,
Who are born to offend, the nature of all things
And in our diabolic efforts, we kiss the deepest feelings,
And jive and trapeze with the subtlest discoveries,
Cause hey, we’re human.
We weren’t born to sway with the breeze,
We were born to make it sway with us.

Come now, drink this wine,
And sway with me.

artwork – Spacedance (http://jacquesmayou.com/)



We were delighting in ourselves,
In our little feats of poetry,
Romance, and love
While the world burned,
In error, confusion, and hatred
We delighted in acid and booze,
In rolling joints at midnight that worried us less
And now, we’re left with nothing,
But memories,
That tell us too little,
Of who we are,
Of who we’ve become,
Of who we’ve never wanted to be

You cannot reach heaven through your senses,
But you can smoke a cigarette on your balcony,
And remember,
That you are a man, a woman, a thing only for a moment
Or you can remember, that you are god
And this whole playground,
Was your doing

You can sell your envy to the woman who crosses you,
The people who put your many hearts to the dirt
You can beg and plead for kindness,
From the women who treat your passions with much too little twinkle
There is much cruelty in the world,
And you can’t say all of it
Familiarity breeds not contempt, but idiocy
It breeds judgment and blindness
Familiarity kills every spark within that makes us human
It clouds our stars and distorts the light,
That reminds us of divinity
Only strangers can dance in sunshine,
And make love with no care for tomorrow

Our hearts hurt to help us remember,
That our efforts at perfection are departures from love
So much for that word love,
I feel decapitated when I use it
What can words give us but simple dreams of sand?
What can my promises of love teach you?
Words only bring cotton softness to your tears,
Words only help you feel things that do not exist
We are little feathers on the cusp of a very great fire,
And all the tenderness that breeds our magic,
Will burn away to faceless ashes

Every poem leaves me only disheartened,
At how far I’ve fallen
From helping this world learn to kiss
Every poem leaves me empty in a new place,
Pondering over how I’ve failed
To bring myself to look into your eyes
You might never know me again, and I, you,
We might never meet again like we did,
Those many years ago, playing in the sand
But as the memory slowly fades into the several nights of aged rum,
I will forget you, for what you were
And maybe see you again as a new child, a woman,
Perhaps a new dream, or a cloud on a trippy morning

We are fingerprints on the glassware of temporal abstraction,
And we give ourselves much suffering,
In our ability to remember the moments,
That were never made to last