ODE TO SOMETHING
© Electric Babylon Music Author: M.M.
If all is one maybe that’s why I feel so lonely, and of these boneless
mysteries wither belongs the ode, I beg in the flexed humility of
routine desire, for I would sing the storm gathering in my throat.
It hangs; some listless moon bathed in darkness, from every window a
beauty of obscurity, and every sailor who begs direction of the sea, is a
patron of this brazen purity, ways are told in puzzles of make and
myth, in a wound it leaves detached from my pain, a painting of a
gallery the painting is hanging in.
The sorrow of the river inspires the artist of the rain.
The metaphors of machine invest a style of dying, and in the folk
darkness of worlds report, tongueless medicine babbles a cure, so the
motors of Babylon are geared to this resort.
And so I a scholar to the empty ways of dogma’s fill, I study the lean
and motion of flight, and the weather beaten thoughts of host divine,
vainly offer a prism to filter logic from the light, a flirtatious sky offers
the throat of an unfixed horizon, and desire is a self explanatory
delusion, but there is something in the way she delivers her rhetorical
temptation, that makes me want to celebrate confusion, yet I hear
some whispered chant in the winds unconscious, that woos me to a
slow October dressing, and I want to sync the clock rivers time.
Where all passage has the scars of blessing.
While I hunger for the marrowbone of the mystery, I’m held hostage to
the rations of light, and the killer that marries your mother, is the
polygamist who seeded the night.
The wit of the beast served with lightning kiss, finds the balm of
creation in rhyme, and eternity unriddled like a lovers heat, flows freely
into rivers time, as I sift thru the debris of this heavy sadness, for
healing and even beauty seems a nihilistic nurse, I’m just so lost I don’t
even know where I want to be, in the poison chemistry of the season’s
convoluted curse, its all a beggars tide the dynamics of moon and
mind, this somethingness an agent of machine, and I am trapped in
the cogs of reason and reflex.
Fixated on what this breath and babble could mean.
Maybe the poets search for god’s monologue, is the divine caught in
humanity’s rut, in this bleeding oneness I suffer distinct, ode to
something I know not what.