February And Beyond

Washed Up and Wind-Wight

Washed Up

Sometimes you get so lonely;
you’re not really there to know.
I rode out of raw, blue countryside:
cold city lights said, ‘Hello.’

My father drove me home from there,
looking out through my eyes.
Just now a Dylan melody
filled in for my disguise.

Space that bubbles from a frying pan
sucks the smile from your face;
and you know where it is your mind slides to
but I guess there's no disgrace

in a time that died -
washed up high and dry

I saw a blossom tree today;
and I stopped the car to look:
when I pulled away I nearly crashed into
a flat-bed pick-up truck.

Fill your mouth with generic sounds
fall deep into your yawn -
whether snow comes early or snow comes late,
short straws have all been drawn.

Somehow you came through the fires of hell,
but the rat at your back still gnaws;
got to go forward for all you’re worth,
bang out of those ghost-train doors,

from a time that died -
washed up high and dry
.......................

Tune: 'Tangled up in Blue' : 'Blood on the Tracks', Bob Dylan

...................

Wind-Wight

Would you believe the wind has 
sucked life from the street of sleepers
to sharpen up its elemental energy?

It takes the Id
to bang the lid
and roll the can,
shake the side-gates like a wild man,
contemplate kicking your windows in
then run a few doors down, yelling,
stand with fists clenched, looking about,
then in sudden hate:
"Whoo!" kick out
at a low latch-gate.
"How are you then, Hedges? ... I said!" -
shearing guffaw so sudden and loud.
Then hiccuping it stumbles off, near brain-dead
up to bed
in the sliding carriage of a black cloud.

But as you turn-over, sigh deep and wiggle your feet,
another three wind-wights are hitting the street.

...........................