Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Coat Hanger

Coat Hanger

       L. Edgar Otto      09 October, 2012

Without warning, easy bake oven
our doppelgangers, the old coat hangers
Gathered the coven, cloven daggers
To give him closure, to hide exposure

Their word compelling, as if their spelling
the sisters brewing, the gargoyles spewing
the brew of witches, their wands but switches
the piper takes them, crazed hearts hear him

The satyrs waiting, the whips and dungeon
their backs for riding, their blood warm clinging
For the hell of it, she falls for seduction life but the  hope for love, shame walking, stalking destruction

You were priceless, a flower budding, yellow greening longing for ripening, seasons chance happen drawn by your preening, not seen wrong
chanting their song one of legions in the holy regions

Come Christmas morning, under the snow throw
the nestlings nurse in the after glow, some say is prison lost in our sleeping, missed this lifetime in silent weeping, runaway running back to what you know

The table setting, the same old gravy bowl, the same old turkey ham, the same tarnished silver, to pull the wish bone, to carve the sinews, to pray together give thanks while the fattening then leave the nestlings

The book of magic, the tax and census, the auction of the slaves in the land of freedom, the top hat speaks out, the waves his pen, brings power to the union
until the sorrows, the dead end tomorrows, memorials

All then to run the race track round and round until the next time, until the shadow flirts with the widow, or the mourning mother asks why time takes them beyond anger, invaders far from the stranger star, her manger

* * * * * * 

Footnote: I was noticing some interesting chord emphasis on the guitar and in a dark mood if one sees the struggle and the shortness of life over our own lifetimes and of those we know, to see perhaps what holds us all back and the foolishness when the impediments are gone and so on... but I post this for the interesting arrangement of some words and ideas as an art form in itself perhaps inscrutable as are the old Chinese poems saved for the calligraphy's sake.  Clearly some personal things have slowed me down while I race myself at the speed of light to unknown limits and measure too the price of clarity and awakening.  Also this is the poetic draft of many things that may finally become that song...

No comments:

Post a Comment