Heartfully, Holly and Lou Reed
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Sanaki feasts on playing hide and seek within
the dark red-brick prison that delicately shapes
my head.
Sanaki, with a bloodcurdling shriek, scrambles
through the maze of cells, disturbing and attacking
all the other residents.
A wolf pack of aroused viperous prisoners pin down
the melting warden, pricks him with needles, prods him
with pencils and swims into
his skin.
These days, when the light shines in, you don't want to play,
Sanaki?
Are you still there, my dear Sanaki?
Do you stare in silence as the violin dances on the piano,
when water floods inbetween the lead bars of closed cells;
when the warden's murderers lay, motionless, in their white
fish skin, with their limp lungs and pink mouths retiring
as small geysers.
Do you miss the scent of glorious blood, of rotten fear,
of sweaty nights and mildewed dreams?
Yes, my solemn Sanaki, I know you lurk in the corner
of these fragile walls. Gnawing at the chains, keen to pounce
on the white meat, to ravish it open and spawn more evils
to later regurgitate your eternal existance in my face.
One day, I'll get up and look in the mirror and
our eyes will meet, hungry Sanaki.
A tear will trickle down the open window of your cell,
and with blood trickling down your mouth, you will
crawl out and stand free, piercing and digging your
pupils through my empty body.
Sanaki, you need not break our prison's locks.
Sanaki, we need not spill our dark secrets.
Sanaki, I am you, dressed.
the dark red-brick prison that delicately shapes
my head.
Sanaki, with a bloodcurdling shriek, scrambles
through the maze of cells, disturbing and attacking
all the other residents.
A wolf pack of aroused viperous prisoners pin down
the melting warden, pricks him with needles, prods him
with pencils and swims into
his skin.
These days, when the light shines in, you don't want to play,
Sanaki?
Are you still there, my dear Sanaki?
Do you stare in silence as the violin dances on the piano,
when water floods inbetween the lead bars of closed cells;
when the warden's murderers lay, motionless, in their white
fish skin, with their limp lungs and pink mouths retiring
as small geysers.
Do you miss the scent of glorious blood, of rotten fear,
of sweaty nights and mildewed dreams?
Yes, my solemn Sanaki, I know you lurk in the corner
of these fragile walls. Gnawing at the chains, keen to pounce
on the white meat, to ravish it open and spawn more evils
to later regurgitate your eternal existance in my face.
One day, I'll get up and look in the mirror and
our eyes will meet, hungry Sanaki.
A tear will trickle down the open window of your cell,
and with blood trickling down your mouth, you will
crawl out and stand free, piercing and digging your
pupils through my empty body.
Sanaki, you need not break our prison's locks.
Sanaki, we need not spill our dark secrets.
Sanaki, I am you, dressed.
Written in New York, December 2007
The clinks and kinks of fragile bones abruptly embrace
the silent and strangled atmosphere of a lifeless room.
The cold-rugged winter's day dawns a single awakening
body; a spiritless body, alive with moans, groans and
regretful tones.
These lethargic sonatas resonate across the fondled beds
and disheveled floor, that are home to slumberous corpses,
whom, without malice, lay face away.
The sleek, sly sunlight slips in between the cheap brown hotel
curtains, then, ever so artfully, dances past the dusty
air to hone the lazy shadows who sway slowly across the
imprisoning white walls of comatose minds.
Grudgingly, some coarse and painful movements quench the
shy, sorry and shameful suite.
A single Lucky Strike cigarette is lit by one dozen matches.
Ungrudgingly, some harsh and cutting words follow the smoke out
of her white chapped lips.
The sun still slices the split stinging seconds of that poisoned morning.
the silent and strangled atmosphere of a lifeless room.
The cold-rugged winter's day dawns a single awakening
body; a spiritless body, alive with moans, groans and
regretful tones.
These lethargic sonatas resonate across the fondled beds
and disheveled floor, that are home to slumberous corpses,
whom, without malice, lay face away.
The sleek, sly sunlight slips in between the cheap brown hotel
curtains, then, ever so artfully, dances past the dusty
air to hone the lazy shadows who sway slowly across the
imprisoning white walls of comatose minds.
Grudgingly, some coarse and painful movements quench the
shy, sorry and shameful suite.
A single Lucky Strike cigarette is lit by one dozen matches.
Ungrudgingly, some harsh and cutting words follow the smoke out
of her white chapped lips.
The sun still slices the split stinging seconds of that poisoned morning.
These nights, lately
I can feel it again, one day in every two.
When nights start to drip like glue
cycled thoughts like clock hands always tick their way back to you.
with wrinkled sheets and pillows that still smell like saliva and skin
I claw at myself and try to settle in
This deprivation aides hallucinations
I catch light traces in the corner of my eyes,
they jaunt and taunt with old skin, blue pupils and killer smiles
And all I have are scabs and extra flesh
bad habits, scary stories and nothing less
The hands tick and subjects quickly change, the hours drag and its gets more strange
Lucid scene: a man in a room; they come too quickly and I can hardly move
Nights get frightening, bed gets smaller, my skin,
to fragile and attent, needs to cover everything
I pray for any sleep, to a god I don't believe in
I force a smile on my face and deny all I've seen
When nights start to drip like glue
cycled thoughts like clock hands always tick their way back to you.
with wrinkled sheets and pillows that still smell like saliva and skin
I claw at myself and try to settle in
This deprivation aides hallucinations
I catch light traces in the corner of my eyes,
they jaunt and taunt with old skin, blue pupils and killer smiles
And all I have are scabs and extra flesh
bad habits, scary stories and nothing less
The hands tick and subjects quickly change, the hours drag and its gets more strange
Lucid scene: a man in a room; they come too quickly and I can hardly move
Nights get frightening, bed gets smaller, my skin,
to fragile and attent, needs to cover everything
I pray for any sleep, to a god I don't believe in
I force a smile on my face and deny all I've seen
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