a toast of bitter almonds boiled
By Fun Ben
the planks are stacked and burningthe flames are licking at the definitions and I see blurry triangles bursting brightlyI can do the math and draw the linesbut no conclusions arise in the glowing spirex is undefined and why is even further from reachfacts are not orange, or yellow, or reddrunken speech hits me like funeral musica dirge rising over wind-swept oceans of screwdriversand entwining with wisps of marijuana smoke to form screaming mouths in the mistI a sailor adrift in the fogI open the refridgerator and piano fills my headI reach for the ginger ale hearing strings in slow thunderthe revelers are mouthing words without knowingeach and every on my discomfort trainedin their interest I read a sort of damnationthey are singing this requiem for mebonfires in their eyes like the pyramids aflametheir tombs are alive with the agent of renaissancewe all know that I am the one dying at this festive funeraltoo frightened of losing myself in letting gothe candle I have lit is low on wick my resting place in silence and shadowthe wax melting slowly, wrenchingly,in my trail drops like tiny men on crossesin my grave an image in a puddle of frustrationthere's a beautiful sunset tonight,but there's only me to raise a glass with no words but screams to speakand only tears to drink -I taste peach pits and bitter almonds boiledand wonder whether choking breathscan blow the clouds away.The last three lines I am still unsure of. Written October 7th, 2001 © on Oct 07 2001 02:12 PM PST 0 • 1
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"the planks are stacked and burningthe flames are licking at the definitions and I see blurry triangles bursting brightlyI can do the math and draw the linesbut no conclusions arise in the glowing spirex is undefined and why is even further from reachfacts are not orange, or yellow, or reddrunken speech hits me like funeral musica dirge rising over wind-swept oceans of screwdriversand entwining with wisps of marijuana smoke to form screaming mouths in the mistI a sailor adrift in the fogI open the refridgerator and piano fills my headI reach for the ginger ale hearing strings in slow thunderthe revelers are mouthing words without knowingeach and every on my discomfort trainedin their interest I read a sort of damnationthey are singing this requiem for mebonfires in their eyes like the pyramids aflametheir tombs are alive with the agent of renaissancewe all know that I am the one dying at this festive funeraltoo frightened of losing myself in letting gothe candle I have lit is low on wick my resting place in silence and shadowthe wax melting slowly, wrenchingly,in my trail drops like tiny men on crossesin my grave an image in a puddle of frustrationthere's a beautiful sunset tonight,but there's only me to raise a glass with no words but screams to speakand only tears to drink -I taste peach pits and bitter almonds boiledand wonder whether choking breathscan blow the clouds away.The last three lines I am still unsure of...."