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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476793" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Not Again, Tonight, These Fin de Siecle Blues</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not again, tonight, these fin de siecle blues<br>that subsume all my blossoming overviews <br>into the mystic specificity of concrete things <br>I stub my heart against as if I'd just had <br>a head on collision with the moon. Impact. <br>Emotional meteor showers, the Virginids, perhaps, <br>I'm being stoned by my own congenital radiants<br>as if I were being driven out of somewhere <br>like an extinct species. Bad memories, lifeboats <br>that didn't make it back to shore, things I've tried <br>to mythologize like a shipwreck in coral on the moon. <br>Subtle childhood fears that run my tongue along<br>the shadows of their blades, when I was scared and young, <br>and the words would come out like drops of blood <br>sliding down the length of the stargrass I grazed upon <br>alone as now in my high wide starfields. <br>The same ones that are seeking me out tonight<br>like a rogue planet that's never quite known <br>where it's belonged, or with whom, if anyone <br>or where at all. Looking for an exit sign<br>in the infinite labyrinth of the nightmare <br>that's walked me like a shadow through all these years. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Most of the past, a waste of good innocence, <br>and the people and things I loved about it <br>I cherish more now than I did back then, <br>usually wounded irreparably in a way <br>I would have suffered for them if I could have<br>in order to have my love of them hurt me less, <br>given I always thought I was more worthy of the pain, <br>because more deserving of what they endured <br>than they were. Maledictions of draconian experience. <br>Miracle of miracles, I transcended everything so savagely, <br>it's hard to forgive myself now for ever being a child, <br>but I try. I put my arms around people when they cry <br>even frivolously, and offer them a few blue ribbons of wisdom <br>in exchange for their butter-fingered nooses<br>and the occasional smile at the antics of a sacred clown <br>who left his tears painted on a dressing room mirror<br>as if it had been raining for years without anyone <br>but himself, a circus of one on tour, getting wet. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've fallen through more cracks in the earth <br>than most earthquake zones, whenever the continental plates <br>of my tectonic skull put their hands together in despair<br>but couldn't manage prayer as I jumped in on horseback <br>to save someone's cornerstone, like Rome, whether <br>I was delusional or not. A few people lit candles in remembrance, <br>but just as often as the fireflies light their lamps<br>they blow them out to return to the darkness <br>as the closest thing to home. I'm inured to the intemperance <br>of selfishness as well as gratitude. People approach me <br>with their secret charade, and I cancel myself out <br>like a circus parade I'm sure is never going to come, <br>a kid kicked to the curb who's been waiting too long, <br>and we're both a little estranged by our mutual equilibrium.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wild parsnip in the drainage ditch boils the flesh and leaves <br>permanent scars. And when I don't see them as arsonists <br>and flammable gypsies, I see the poppies as <br>the blood-soaked rags of solar flares that have staunched <br>and cauterized the bleeding awhile. Hot knives <br>applied to the heart's excruciations like a brutal code of mercy<br>to distract me from the agony of my indifference<br>to the end of an era of unacknowledged supremacy<br>as the occult master of mirages on the nightshifts <br>of intensive care, the terminal ward, desolation row, <br>a fencing master of scalpels who knew more ways <br>of cutting the heart out of himself and offering it up <br>to someone who needed it more for the moment, <br>thinking they had a better use for it than I ever did. <br>A poultice of water applied like an oasis to a desert's forehead <br>until even a corpse could rise up out of the glass-blowing heat <br>like the inexhaustible amphora of an Aquarian among the stars.<br> <br>One of the dark jewels of my childhood <br>in the ashes of a dragon that left me its eyes<br>by eclipsing mine so I could see <br>where the black holes were ahead of time <br>and warn the well-meaning lighthouses that clung to the coast <br>not to trust their starmaps to get their bearings<br>or ask for directions from the mentors of the lost and the blind, <br>but to turn the wheel of life and death loose in a storm <br>of demonically dispassionate clarities intense enough <br>to weld diamonds by staring through them <br>with the ironic compassion of an empty lifeboat <br>lowered from the deck of an enlightened shipwreck <br>on the lunar bottom of the Sea of Tranquility<br>I can weave like a flying carpet of real water <br>out of the wavelengths of high frequency mirages<br>like a homoeopathic wolf shaman in shepherd's clothing.</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=476793" data-title="Not Again, Tonight, These Fin de Siecle Blues de Patrick White" data-description="Not again, tonight, these fin de siecle blues
that subsume all my blossoming overviews 
into the mystic specificity of concrete things 
I stub my heart against as if I'd just had 
a head on collision with the moon. Impact. 
Emotional meteor shower..."></div>
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