by Michael Brett
Extreme violence welds|
The wrong soundtrack to your inner world, a kind of
Perverse jukebox which always plays wrong tunes
At the wrong time: Blues at weddings,
Fast Punk at gravesides.
Sometimes it warbles grim lullabies
For a screaming baby - inside you - that never grows up.
You nurse it, at three in the morning,
It's seems only calm
When it's staring through the window at the rain and parked cars.
Then, the B-side, the tune: You have failed
Some kind of exam, but what was it? All other voices
Are just backstage, inconsequential. Friends
Slide in and out, unnoticed.
Drink and books become your home,
They flex with your storms like palm trees.
Emergencies are symphonies, a kind of relief.
For an instant, your feelings are the right ones:
Your explosions, your inner rocketry become
Sunflowers, congratulations, your name in the paper.
Copyright © 2010 - Michael Brett
Published: 5/13/10 · Author's Page · Next Poem