I heard a poet who said,
"No matter how big the sky gets,
My balls are bigger."
I liked that.
"No matter how big the sky gets,
My balls are bigger."
I liked that.
Not because it was powerful or anything
But because it was beautifully idiot.
Duh, the sky has no balls.
You can't compare me to the sky.
...though we try. Take superman.
For him, the sky has balls,
since it's the only way we can measure his.
Even James Bond,
the wit, the debonair, the sophisticate,
I file under "the sky's the limit"
These are the metaphor men, and
they scare me with their monolithic manly.
Metaphors are dangerous.
We all know they break down,
but when? And do our minds
make it through all fine? or our theories? our child dreams?
Superman, an America; James, an England,
Threatened speciously by radiation and barbarism...
We forget their metaphor and ingest their mono-lithic dream,
And then the only men worth being, we mediocre men can't be.
Do you know Cu Chulainn
He's a meat-head in Gaelic verse,
Like the Irish Odysseus, Beowulf.
An exaggeration for sure, a metaphor no doubt
but there's a story, a tragedy
where he kills his son and, unspeakably grieved, attacks
the charging waves of the ocean with all
the physical prowess
that made him
a king
a hero
a some-one
but he could do nothing against the waves
that fell not like mocking roses, turrets of booming flame
or even tidal wrath, foam frothed sea lakes, arsenic lab-rat sea snakes
or enchanted venom fangs
or bacterium giant slugs
or desperate evil coil sea-weeds death-knells
or barrels of white shriveled dead women, black-topped spirit knights thundering
or the damned dry-hiss wretch of time, a drunk's failed staircase stupor, dungeonous gongs
but like waves.
tumbling on a wailing man
quiet surf against the sand.
It's nice, I guess, there's a hero
for whom we don't have to pretend
the waves are mutants or the sky has balls.
It's nice to think
of the fettered man, like me,
unsauve, unstrong, unsteel
Then, I can dream. Not because the world's my oyster.
but because I'm its bitch.
But because it was beautifully idiot.
Duh, the sky has no balls.
You can't compare me to the sky.
...though we try. Take superman.
For him, the sky has balls,
since it's the only way we can measure his.
Even James Bond,
the wit, the debonair, the sophisticate,
I file under "the sky's the limit"
These are the metaphor men, and
they scare me with their monolithic manly.
Metaphors are dangerous.
We all know they break down,
but when? And do our minds
make it through all fine? or our theories? our child dreams?
Superman, an America; James, an England,
Threatened speciously by radiation and barbarism...
We forget their metaphor and ingest their mono-lithic dream,
And then the only men worth being, we mediocre men can't be.
Do you know Cu Chulainn
He's a meat-head in Gaelic verse,
Like the Irish Odysseus, Beowulf.
An exaggeration for sure, a metaphor no doubt
but there's a story, a tragedy
where he kills his son and, unspeakably grieved, attacks
the charging waves of the ocean with all
the physical prowess
that made him
a king
a hero
a some-one
but he could do nothing against the waves
that fell not like mocking roses, turrets of booming flame
or even tidal wrath, foam frothed sea lakes, arsenic lab-rat sea snakes
or enchanted venom fangs
or bacterium giant slugs
or desperate evil coil sea-weeds death-knells
or barrels of white shriveled dead women, black-topped spirit knights thundering
or the damned dry-hiss wretch of time, a drunk's failed staircase stupor, dungeonous gongs
but like waves.
tumbling on a wailing man
quiet surf against the sand.
It's nice, I guess, there's a hero
for whom we don't have to pretend
the waves are mutants or the sky has balls.
It's nice to think
of the fettered man, like me,
unsauve, unstrong, unsteel
Then, I can dream. Not because the world's my oyster.
but because I'm its bitch.
