Saturday, May 17, 2014

Order of Protection

So, I started talking to myself today and then found out that, in doing so, I had violated a restraining order.

Copyright 2014 by Andrew T. Durham

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

The Stone Indoors Book, #9: Curtains

I have the attention span
Of a kitten
In a room
Full of curtains.

Copyright 2014 by Andrew T. Durham

Saturday, January 25, 2014

The Stone Indoors Book, #8: Chime In

It might have been easier put in simpler terms,
But that's just not the way I rock.
In times gone past, hardly noticed at first,
I should have paused -
Giving myself ample time to reflect before speaking -
But this, again, is not my nature.

So what came out was no doubt a mixture
Of truth and oh so clueless disguise,
But don't we all tend to do that?
I mean, don't we all?

So it's pointless now,
to some remembered,
to cast away some broken mane,
that the lion ever so soon abandoned
to the pockets of men now insane.

Retrieve, retrieve your blistered basket
filled to the brim with trampled sleeves
of one hundred and fifty million waistcoats
worn by men who us deceived.

Resound, resound in mighty hallways
in the dust of autumn afternoon light,
Let your voice now trickle upward
quickly before you lose your sight...

Quickly before you lose your sight...

Quickly before you lose your sight.

Copyright 2014 by Andrew T. Durham

The Stone Indoors Book, #7: Logisitics

There is seemingly no way around this odd feeling,
A mixture of unease and quite brilliant awe,
Though apparently, notwithstanding it makes sullen swirls
In the moments of my life.

There is no mysticism here, no there is not,
Though I tend to rely on more subtle meanings,
Old songs from my youth return in baskets of tears,
Calling to me in a savage loneliness.

On downtrodden days I might have recalled
A more stringent reliance on more summer times,
But the logistics of love leave no balance of senses
That might render me futile to my own desires.

It is an education, it is, of a gigantic sort,
And more musical lines may be more poetic,
But the hammering of my scarred heart
Signals me in long awakenings.

It tells me in rustic winter surroundings,
That I am indeed special, to some degree,
And in moments of clarity as yet undisclosed
I rest beautifully in the arms of the unaware.

Copyright 2014 by Andrew T. Durham