"warmth"
written after revelations by jake kilroy.
19 years engulfed in flames,
barely a typewriter for a heart,
i swallowed the madness like a prince.
and then,
hellbent on irony, i let it swallow me back.
golden years poured out of me
when the time finally came to let go.
the great cosmos taught to me came undone,
churning my eyes, pinwheels aglow.
all that was left of me was breath in the wind.
and then i was present,
now, now, now;
a lifetime in oxygen,
a head without space,
a drooling idiot at the helm.
packaged for bedlam, i conquered the senses.
my broken ears radiated a hum as i tossed and turned.
magnificent earth below me, afternoon sky above;
the breeze was gentle here, away from the city for once.
my fingers slept like snakes, holed up in pockets
usually left for lucky coins and old keys,
now turning around themselves nervously,
waiting for the dreams to be penned with damage,
wringing the tendons and puncturing the bones.
the truest freedom is sanity.
it's what every man says when he looks back on history
and refuses to acknowledge the dead bodies and blood on his hands.
see,
for every lover, there's a war.
and for every war, there's someone to come home for.
for every writer, there's a lie.
and for every lie, there's a bed to come back to.
but all of it, if it was indeed worth the trouble,
is the romantic jive of new age spiritualists,
finally coming from somebody who knows how to drink
and say goodbye at every turn, unafraid of death,
without faith in a god or hope for humanity,
happy with the way things were, are, and will be,
cutting the past, beating the present, and talking the future,
all along knowing how to build fire and light the way.
