Fallen London

Far too Far

If the lifeline is indeed a line,

May I join the ends in perfect common,

So a close never comes to mine,

So I stay above it all in a boat that rocks the clouds,

To feel the surface shift in spring and autumn

differences, “til trailing winter ice touch the gunwale

And breathe their last with the formation of crackling sound.”

But I tune my radio to a different channel.

T’was the good, I say, as I kill the forecast.

With a circular line I may stand and outlast

The fiercest of foe.

But my price

Comes as a train comes, an awaiting burden,

For to live forever,

On my circular line,

I live in invisibility and stratification.

Forced in, locked in, seeing that ideal tulip live, marry, die.

Live, marry die.

And her hand grows from faint to fainter

Under the bursh-stroke of the artist who fails to capture her:

He took her skin for his canvas.

Beneath the ink of the poet who dreams of her:

He took her eyes for his stanzas.

And I,

the man who lives in circular,

Rocks his boat above rain and sees her live, marry, die,

In his own thoughts, he falls into the boat,

With a soundless voice and visionless thought,

And feels the earth follow the curvature of his spine,

Just as his life follows the curvature of that continuous

line.

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Enough!

I got asked a question today.
Leading word, Why. In my
experience the only significant way
to annoy me is to ask Why,
Why do you stick around Society,
If you hate the sleaze, the sly,
The devious, and how, they ask,
Aren’t you one of them? Why?

Lower your senses, you swine.
You think my opinion makes a scrap
of difference to the way they drink their wine,
eat their hor d’ouvres, and kneecap
each other with stilettos on the parquet
dancefloor, well it doesn’t. At all.
Nor does it matter at all what I say,
I can babble and blast and cat-call
however I want, it takes more than that to sway
those ballgown-suffocating people.
And face it – you know I’m right,
Society’s nose is turned up from the urchins to the church steeple,
and from the Mid-day and the Mid-night,
It matters shit to them, what time they gather to intermingle,
And to spit and lie when their opponent is out of sight,
They’ve not got the pride to open their rusty mouth,
to spill their curses to my face, well!
I do not offer them the courtesy of my tongue.

A scrawl on a wall told me to follow
what I’m good at, and not what I like,
which to some days I regret. A hollow
life protrudes through, a heart-intersecting-spike,
But yet I live comfortably when I learn to swallow
that damned pride I desire, and I strike
the Society’s rooms with my presence. To recieve
the little titbits of what those ladies know I crave,
I can put up a lie, I spend my whole life to deceive,
what stops me from doing it now? The tongue
between my teeth, and the taste of blood is my relief
from this little violin horror show! Begone!
I have had enough!

Enough!
Enough of the second-eyed stares,
Time enough to remind you not a single one of you cares!
Open your lockets of your most dear,
Look how you’ve betrayed them, shed a damned tear!
Don’t make me dance yet another waltzing tune
with a hand on heart and rhythm in unison,
Sooner I be dead, dead and gone,
Than hear the tap of one-two-three and three-two-one;
Sooner I hear the click of a snuff box close,
Than be able to see up every bloody nose
of the men who toss their heads back and let their laughter roar,
You can hear the mighty bellow from across the floor!
Sooner I see the light in their eyes fade,
As I expose this expensively-uniformed charade;
Sooner I kill myself than suffer more of this stuff,
Let met to the middle of the floor, let me shout my, “Enough!”

And then…
When, in the silence, the sound of a pin…
Might just – just – be heard…
I realise I truly shouted my word.
Not only that, my mouth keeps going,
Slandering the night, my tongue is sowing
the seeds of my expulsion from this little clique,
Well, I didn’t say I wanted to stay in it,
But oh! how they stare! With their illustrious eyes,
Like molten orbs, their gazes is my prize,
Forget the sordid poem of love on my desk at home,
The downfall of a God! In me!
They advance, hands a-grasp,
Some Men faint, some Ladies gasp,
Eager to toss me far out of the door,
Come on, simpletons, throw me more!
Into the bushes of fungus statement,
Over the fountain, onto the pavement,
My sleeves are torn, revealing skin,
Hello, true horror lurking within
your ugly Society, I knew it was true!
You’re nothing without me!
But I’m something without you!

I: Air of London – I’m stuck on the ceiling

I am stuck on the ceiling. Do I know how I got there? No. I forgot my own name. Several times. But I consider there are more… pressing concerns. I’m stuck on the ceiling. I think I said that before. But I’m up where they hang the stars, with their long poles, and I wonder sometimes what they hang them on. Or if they just stayed up by themselves.

I can confirm there are hooks they hang the stars from. From the ceiling. But, while it’s a good discovery, I’d rather have both soles of both feet back on the streets on the ground, not up here. I can’t do anything up here.

Perhaps this is just a description in itself though, while remaining calm at least. I’m up here, all alone, with my mouth shut. But to me it seems like everyone else is up there. With their mouths open. And do they look up at me? No. No no no no no! They don’t know I exist. Yet here I am.

Stuck on the damned ceiling.