Finally, on that night back in the car, this is the last of the three poems that I wrote (see previous two chapter for more details).
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An act blessed blasted! An act if you please.
One with blunders and questions and... Lies.
An act if you please.
A sufferer here in the show we maketh shall live their full
of that cast iron will and
fall with a slam down under grinding, winding track-wheels as
all the past hops and leaps to catch up again.
She cannot find her happy ending.
An act if you please.
Cascade the comments and dull it with a pleasant banjo - thus my listeners need not worry.
They shall spurn you, jeer at you...
Oh, I have found my actor.
But now an act if you please!
Let us contrast the beginning to the end with jokers and dances,
then by the by we will pull it down- silently.
The actor will feel the change- so slight at first,
then inside the actor will melt.
The pace increases with tell-tale flicks and flairs.
They won't see, they won't care.
(How kannie you nie...)
No, an act of you please.
One member alone from that tall audience shall know... Somehow
(Sy must have the truth gesê...)
Stop it, I am all pressure and all power.
You have no say; it is only your life.
You are my actor. Sing for me...
You will run out-
You will break-
You will hurt-
You will never trust-
You are dark-
You are bad.
But I forbid it to go on...
Pick up your silly pride.
Next you must suck up all that stash of anti-satanic warbling
until it flowwws out your ears,
but the flow of reality from them is stemmed.
The flow of real feeling is left unseen.
Untainted.
Unearthly in potency.
This is the mess I create
YOU ARE READING
Wave (Book 2)
PoetryI had survived the first. That was then; this is now. The blindfold of so many pills slowly died away and first though my finger then my head, a passion, a hurt and a need filled me as every moment was consumed with words; every breath with wisps of...
