Tuesday, July 21, 2015

6925. DRAWING WATER, ALL I CARRY IS GRIEF

DRAWING WATER, ALL 
I CARRY IS GRIEF
I have here the entablature of Hell, a true and
circumstantial realm. Look at my hands, they are
all worn out. That's not a henna tattoo, you fool
it's paint. There are two things you can give me
sometime or other, as a gift, OK? Time, and space.
If you don't mind. I want to spread out. (Oh give me
land, lots of land, 'neath the starry skies above; don't
fence me in...). Well, that wasn't me, no, but it's a
song from a long time ago, when land was still free.
-
I can't shout about things any longer; having lost both
my enthusiasm and my voice. My eyesight is shot; I
have ten pound glasses needed to see. The cheery lane
I lived upon is now a superhighway filled with people
driving their cars on their own ways to hell. Sartre said
 'No Exit'. He was right, and he also said,
'Hell is other people.' Yeah.
-
No pizazz in my Kool-Aid doubt, no sideshow in my
limousine. The carny cut the cards, and now he's living
like a King. I am broad-shouldered, but all I carry is grief.

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