Ribmeat Of The Family Tree

Life on instrumental

4-8-05

9pm stumbledown drunk; let's begin
         (he supposes sarcastically).

Everything close seems to suffer within.
On the right path but
the heart isn't
gargantuan enough
to nurture the complexities
of coming to terms with his doings
         (or undoings, he supposes sarcastically)
that seem to fall lost on the outside.

A weeping melody has begun
in his arrival.

He had an alarming irrationality
about himself
that knew too much of him
for his own good,
spawning an almost patriarchal
rationality that demanded respect.
It was endearing;
at times, loveable
         (to be loveless, he supposes sarcastically).

He's declining
         -gracefully,
          as he might...

His isolation
was an excessive workout,
a science well practiced
and enjoyed through metaphors
and social abstinence
         (he wants, he supposes sarcastically).

Yet his band played on.

Lost in an astonishing array
of alcohol ice cubes,
ash fluttering smoke ash
and the bullying beatdown
of a typical winter day
gone on too long...
an unspoken song repeated,
a pillow unfilled or
a lit match with no wick to burn,
he's screaming
to no one
who can't hear
the words
that don't inflect upon
ears that don't feel
the silence he's to become
         (he knows, sarcastically).

He's declining
         -gracefully,
          as he might...