I can't write enough
Put enough purple in the painting
My red is a little light like the xerox machine at the Library
But maybe that's its shade, red light
The blues get watered down
I'd like to explore the solar system
Put the orbit harmonics into consonance
Every 8th distance with inclusion for a junkyard or two
I want the bugs to have a brain
And intimate the massive horde which I have no control over
But can interact through sight and sound and smell
Is so numerous, it's like throwing dice to alter the odds
In an endless wave of statistical priviledge of persistence
I want to write that my cats understand me,
And there is no border between what I experience and they
Because I see what they sometimes see, which isn't to be seen
Which is unseemly to whom may think it an affront to have an open mind
And like wanting to pick every flower, I want to use every word
But I can't write enough... or maybe, don't know all the words
Or all the worlds MY words reside in, and so can't pick the yellow spring
To place in a small vase next to electronic picture frame
It's not fair. I'd like to construct a grand piano, a great pipe organ
That one might play and spits out logical constructs in rhyme and metaphor
Press a key to color them a little deeper purple and a darker blue
Make my red light, alizarin crimson, and have it come out poignant
Like a lemon yellow sun and purple clouds, Heart felt,
To surprise even myself, to help all my problems after song
I'd like to construct a great pipe organ with all the keys coded
And write poetry down like a scoresheet to produce everything sorted
But there's no way to get it into brains without writing composition,
And I can't write enough
I'd like to write, I had this dream and this invention...
And sat writing emotive composition after pathetic composition
So they locked me in a cube, to study the brain-changes, to see if I'd go mad
And now I'm their secret, dead, because they forgot to feed me..
As proverbial skeleton in a closet, trapped,
A secret, starved, and dead, now. And my purple doesn't anymore matter.
I can't write enough.
Put enough purple in the painting
My red is a little light like the xerox machine at the Library
But maybe that's its shade, red light
The blues get watered down
I'd like to explore the solar system
Put the orbit harmonics into consonance
Every 8th distance with inclusion for a junkyard or two
I want the bugs to have a brain
And intimate the massive horde which I have no control over
But can interact through sight and sound and smell
Is so numerous, it's like throwing dice to alter the odds
In an endless wave of statistical priviledge of persistence
I want to write that my cats understand me,
And there is no border between what I experience and they
Because I see what they sometimes see, which isn't to be seen
Which is unseemly to whom may think it an affront to have an open mind
And like wanting to pick every flower, I want to use every word
But I can't write enough... or maybe, don't know all the words
Or all the worlds MY words reside in, and so can't pick the yellow spring
To place in a small vase next to electronic picture frame
It's not fair. I'd like to construct a grand piano, a great pipe organ
That one might play and spits out logical constructs in rhyme and metaphor
Press a key to color them a little deeper purple and a darker blue
Make my red light, alizarin crimson, and have it come out poignant
Like a lemon yellow sun and purple clouds, Heart felt,
To surprise even myself, to help all my problems after song
I'd like to construct a great pipe organ with all the keys coded
And write poetry down like a scoresheet to produce everything sorted
But there's no way to get it into brains without writing composition,
And I can't write enough
I'd like to write, I had this dream and this invention...
And sat writing emotive composition after pathetic composition
So they locked me in a cube, to study the brain-changes, to see if I'd go mad
And now I'm their secret, dead, because they forgot to feed me..
As proverbial skeleton in a closet, trapped,
A secret, starved, and dead, now. And my purple doesn't anymore matter.
I can't write enough.
