In the age of iron ore when Gods strode the shore
We ranged a globe and sinned, exulting in our whims.
But now a lower denser glow calcifies all we know.
The mountain jay the desert wren, they call and hop and call again.
The evil you planted in my gut never leaves and leaves a cut
a putrid burning line through my heart across my mind.
I say I need my little girl. I say she is all my world.
This my fervent hypothesis: Somewhere she lies and shares this wish.
Is woken by it every night, held in a cracked and solemn light.
Somewhere reaching for our crime. Our path to that love sublime,
which people all dream them after. We, bent, sneak up over rafters
through a seam unseen, through a break unclean — but ours.
I blather of some holy place who longs to envelope my disgrace.
She will forgive what I am. She will love me as I am.
All this talk of hurt through heart belly; of never part and please tell me
that you love me, are glad of me; could never shove me, think bad of me.
All this talk scrunched over clutched gut, ignoring infinitis beyond this cut.
All this talk of my lonely hurt while we together with disaster flirt.
Heraclitus said awake we share a common world; we are known.
But asleep we turn all aside, each to a darkness all his own.
I need my wife, I need my girl; my passage past the evil that swirls
explodes barfs from out my being, forever jars me, mars my seeing.
Do such cures work? Is it not the same cure sought by every other jerk?
Just a little twisted. Because no blade can enter this snapped torn bent broken glade
without that it itself is damaged and yearns to turn with a tiger caged
inside a winding prison? And all this merely so two can listen
to the same old story of love, same old tired glory of shove
off past the breakers, past the frothy fakers
bragging of rough seas. It’s a calm enough breeze.
Calm enough out there where two admit they’re hurt and need to care
for themselves, each other, and the world — wide as heaven deep as earth — that lies between.
But
how to do any moment
so that it is ok
for everyone
in this jumble
how to stand aside
and let wisdom
knit us towards
a wider, deeper, kinder way
all this sickness so boring drying up blowing away
like drizzled dog shit on a sidewalk in a drought beneath a dogged sun
drama’s boring
what’s interesting is the wide expanse of a quiet kind heart
that is the thought that unfolds into infinite worlds

Then he always adds something about

I meant
to talk to you
in a nice way
Now I lament
the form I took
when trying to say
you are special to me
And now all this lonely bellowing
to myself
about who and how I can and cannot love
boring
I just wish I could meet you where you are, wherever that is;
meet you where you are and bring what I am, whatever that is, cause I still don’t know;
meet you with me and work through life together

Authors: uh
Editors: (mmmmh) B Willard and A Whistletown
Copyright: (puh!) Andrew Mackenzie Watson