Wednesday, October 3, 2012

The Yellow Light at the Depot

I.
October's hideous beauty
black mirrors in the street
white glare of lights blinding
wrinkled eternities spinning from trees
rainbows after dark

II.
Hypnagogic terror trails
I'm in over my cigar
I saw the heart geometries
the spiral of words spilling upwards
the all-seeing "I" creating forms to observe
but you lone rangered the joint
dropped the faux-la-dex into Loch Raven
and we must watch the action unraveling
after God has left the classroom
and the students improvise

III.
The perfume of mist
as colors are freed from their posts
light pure not revealing
it smells like crickets
a roomful of dreamers think you their ghost
but your turnip yields no blood
they float off like cotton misshapen
and there's no loneliness here
in emptiest air
the transparent ones do provide
all the help you can need
while the living are figments
of overwrought mind

2 comments:

Jack said...

The living can so get in the way.

I love the final verse. This was a great marriage of concept and image:

"they float off like cotton misshapen"

the walking man said...

I think that last cigar should be no later than 3pm!

I do like what you've done here Bill, the moving the verse through that state to dreamless sleep then forcing me back to a R.E.M.

I have had II. on more than a few younger excursions through psychotropia.