Sunday, 2 November 2014

part 38 Du Profundis (c) James WF Roberts

part 38 Du Profundis (c) James WF Roberts 


Sturm und Drang
Storm and Stress
Storm and Urge
Storm and Drive… On this bended knee I pray to G-d.
On this bended knee I wonder how I have survived.
I pray to the Heavens that you will be okay.
I stare at my reflection
and I think I know why you went away.
In the shadow  of the reflection,
I see an almost stranger’s face
looking right back at me. Hamlet’s father
rattling chains.  The ivory keys, the ebony incidentals.
Perfect unison of man and machine. The music of the spheres,
tightened, stretched,  plucked and struck by hammers. Repeatedly.
All of the sounds of nature, controlled by man.
Do I now draw fish and birds,
beasts and people in the sand, on the shore.
If I clap my hands will they  all breathe like you and me.
Too many only feel the love of a man, from the touch
of his fist. Hands around the neck.
Too many children witness the true horrors of life.
Are silent victims.
To unspeakable crimes.

Sturm und Drang Sturm und Drang
Storm and Stress
Storm and Urge
Storm and Drive…
trading poems for sex.
and sex for salvation.
Death’s standing on the corner,
rolling a joint. Wearing clothes,
twenty years outta style.

Sitting at the bar, I see her walk in.
Kissing me half on the cheek,
half on the lips. Her breasts rub into me
chest. Fire burns within me.
I saw a woman clothed in the Sun,
a wise man’s head on a plate,
held in offertory for us all.
Knowledge and fear
rolling through the cosmos.

Osmosis takes hold once more.
Floating upon the vistas of space and time,
reality leaves me and sanity, so far behind.
Lost in the diamonds of your eyes,
that ancient poets once called the sky.

Finding truth in the touch of flesh
against flesh.  Burning…burning..
Keeping time. Tortured memories
burning through me.
Your photographs condemn me
whispers of guilt, sorrow, regret,
loss and love and sex.

Living in someone else’s house,
sharing another man’s bed,
that I am not entitled to.
Showing a world that I can never have.
Salvation in your arms,
and revelation entwining us
together til the dawning light.

She told me of her dreams,
together, High Tea and cocktails,
in the Hotel Labyrinth.
Lost in the corridors of sorrow.

Minotaur lays down the gauntlet
drugs, sex and suicide. All my emotions on display.
 This is how I feel—so this is my art…don’t like it,
coz you don’t understand it.

The ego and the Id,
little more than the simplification
of Maenads and Faeries,
dancing around the aether of existence.
Whispering little curses into our dreams.

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