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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476791" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Noise Seeping Into The Silence</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Noise seeping into the silence. <br>The apartment groans, cracks it knuckles.<br>The gas furnace flares, a poppy, a matchbook, <br>and as things heat up, the tin pipes <br>keep making spasmodic rimshots on the drums, <br>then cooling off, you can hear <br>the last heavy, ripe drops of rain <br>on a metal roof with no walls <br>as he imagines it, somewhere in Burma <br>where the bacteria have such an appetite for life <br>they eat books down to the spine <br>and the glue that binds them <br>like a creekbed of milky honey <br>that’s cracked with use and time.<br>And all the letters of all the words, <br>nothing but flies in amber paperweights.<br>You take the dirty laundry of a life time <br>and you wash the blood and semen <br>off the sheets, the sweat-stained outlines <br>of a he and a she that made lust <br>to exhaust themselves and go to sleep<br>like the chalk silhouettes of two corpses on the street.<br>And you hang them on the line <br>like a computer screen blowing in the wind<br>on a sunny summer afternoon <br>for the neighbours to see <br>how much like them you are<br>when you’re both wearing the same disguise<br>like clean bedsheets with no evidence of life.<br>A tabla rasa. A cheery white void. <br>Snow on a desolate sidewalk late at night <br>that no one’s walked in before you<br>showed up to ruin it with your presence.<br>Footprints on the moon. The estranged signs <br>of a starless space within <br>that keeps a journal of our innocence <br>and its aborted attempts to shine. <br>He watches the smoke of a cigarette <br>shaped by the air it passes through <br>and thinks of the bucolated cosmology <br>of his last lover’s hair, black walnut <br>with Bronze Age touches of infra-red. <br>He remembers her taking her clothes off <br>in master strokes of candlelight <br>that painted a Rembrandt of her likeness<br>and realizes however naked <br>she stood before him on Wednesday night, <br>there were still skins to shed, <br>layers upon layers of metaphor <br>as divisible as an atom <br>or the pages of a book <br>that’s written in wavelengths <br>that go on forever <br>beginning where they left off. <br>And even nude beside each other in bed <br>they were still too dressed up for the occasion.<br>And even the silence and the solitude <br>don’t go far enough into the abyss <br>not to be warped like space <br>by the mass of a metaphor <br>concentrating its light in one place <br>like a serpent sleeping in its coils <br>with its head on the pillow it makes <br>of the endless wavelengths of itself, <br>an emergency firehose encased in glass <br>dreaming of what snakes dream of <br>when they’re not called upon to put things out<br>by swallowing the moon in a single gulp<br>to bring the rain on <br>in this white Sahara of snow, <br>listening like a mirage<br>that wished it had something to cry about, <br>to the eyes of big rain drops <br>falling on the tin roofs of Burma<br>like a gas furnace <br>learning to play the drums<br>like a novice John Bonham <br>in Led Zeppelin’s next afterlife<br>in the dead of winter, <br>in the dark hours of the morning<br>in Perth, Ontario, Canada <br>in an apartment that thinks it’s a band<br>warming up, <br>doing a sound check before the show.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476791" data-title="Noise Seeping Into The Silence de Patrick White" data-description="Noise seeping into the silence. 
The apartment groans, cracks it knuckles.
The gas furnace flares, a poppy, a matchbook, 
and as things heat up, the tin pipes 
keep making spasmodic rimshots on the drums, 
then cooling off, you can hear 
the last ..."></div>
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