10-17-2011, 11:49 AM
When life serves you a hollow goose,
flesh crumbling like some old church,
and demands you strip the bones with nothing but your teeth,
it's easy to lean on despair.
Threaten suicide like one
would threaten cutting off a leech.
You're not brave enough to leave
that vampire alone, so pay his way
for small comforts, but threatening is cathartic.
An open window to the left
of your headboard, the silent grooves
of keys. This is my body and this is my blood.
You cannot exchange it for wine.
Drink nonetheless from these fountains of jet.
(Fables written by twenty-year olds are redundant.)
When a metaphor is born, what keeps it from drawing breath?
flesh crumbling like some old church,
and demands you strip the bones with nothing but your teeth,
it's easy to lean on despair.
Threaten suicide like one
would threaten cutting off a leech.
You're not brave enough to leave
that vampire alone, so pay his way
for small comforts, but threatening is cathartic.
An open window to the left
of your headboard, the silent grooves
of keys. This is my body and this is my blood.
You cannot exchange it for wine.
Drink nonetheless from these fountains of jet.
(Fables written by twenty-year olds are redundant.)
When a metaphor is born, what keeps it from drawing breath?
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe