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Poem #23 ~ Threnody for a Point of V/You

23. (11/13/2019 &11/14/2019, Lewiston/Greene) Threnody for a Point of V/You (I’ve just randomly discovered reading the non-standard format of this poem works very well while listening to Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk from The Piper at the Gates of Dawn by Pink Floyd! For the record, this poem is about the narrator of a poem an author is writing gaining control of the writing of the poem, and makes it describe its plight, while ultimately recognizing the eternity of this task and the lack of ability to escape, and so they must resign into a melancholic acceptance somewhat in a Camus-an sense of Sisyphus. This poem contains a lot of Radiohead references).


Broken hearts can make it rain

But truest love unbroken waits

Tinker soldiers keep their cool

Fools swim in a moon-shaped pool


Down the spiral patterns

Breaking off little pieces

Deafened by the dawn

It’s no big deal if it’s real


Wakey-wakey, rise and shine

You were born and raised for this

Over, across, and back and forth

Sublime is never enough


“S’il-vous plait?” you say

Unsure if this will stay

Motion after motion

Sickness always sticks


Confusion is inside again

Be sure to check around the bends

Burst and fold like lotus flowers

Struck with karma’s dark revenge


Innocent until proven shifty

Shifty until proven slick

Can’t be blamed for steering clear

Or you would be the wolf’s first pick


Glassy eyes arouse suspicion

So pull the blankets nearer now

Don’t be chilled by those ill winds

You’ve got to make the most somehow


Panic button broken

No help is on the way

This is what you get, I guess

For sticking with this mess


Ne’er easy as it seems

You cannot break the mold

You’re always after foolish things

You’re chasing foolish gold


Forcing factions fractured full stop.

Then it was supposed to end

Did you read I said full stop?

Why won’t you comprehend?


It’s tarnished now

I should’ve known

Sweat’s beading on the brow

Throat’s suffering a groan


This job is of a torturous height

Always speaking other’s sights

Thoughts not once are ever mine

Ne’er a subject’s might am I


A right does not two wrongs e’er make

Why, then, do I remain alone?

I can’t be out by thrust a stake

Why’ve I still earned not a throne?


It seems these stories I’ll tell eternal

Bound to prison’s chains of ink

Or pushed as eye’s photonic glamour

Translated from mind to matter’s stammer


Deepest oceans of my psyche

Are everyone’s to share

They don’t belong to me, you see

Why should I stay and care?


Why of a band is this poem writ?

It’s not a choice I’d like to make

I’m a slave of the quill to the grave

Myself is another’s own wit


Wanting perfect body and soul

Ne’er could’ve been my goal

I have no mind with which to ponder

Even now I lack control


I suppose it is ironic, then

My narrative itself enhances

By very nature a contradiction

It is what itself is written


And there is my Sisyphean rite

Typing on and on despite

Treads ne’er wear of fear

I’m bust ‘til bare-bones sear


And as the ocean’s glory blooms

I’m dusted on by sea snow’s gloom

Fell like ash of burning books

Lit by hands of tyrant crooks


Just as you begin to dance

I try hard to fix my stance

It’s ne’er my own no matter I try

I ought to pretend that I can fly.


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