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BACKWARDS RAIN (UN-ARTIST) (27/07/2022) back I was built to create and put on paper whatever it was that my eyes Took in and translated into information for my brain to synthesize. But in time I stagnated, and I came to realize that Whatever it was that I saw and felt, that I attempted to put through The process of translating and synthesizing and eventually creating, Meant very little. Outside of the small solar system, there's not much I can brag about. Of course, with context, they see and understand and appreciate What it is that I feel, and that which my motor skills and concentration Allow me to capture, within limitations. But when I looked at the world around me, I saw everything that inspired me I saw the marble statues, and the celestial maps, and the splattered viscera, And the dripping entrails, and the incomprehensible crystalline constructions, And the flesh and sunflowers, and, collectively, this all stared back at me with Opalescent eyeballs, penetrating my soul, in silence, "Right," I said. "I don't know how to do that." And I don't know how to do that! I can plunge my hand, nails-first, in a claw, into my abdomen, And for you, I can pull out a fistful of entrails, maybe not unlike those I saw, And I can hope that you'll see something in them that you haven't seen before. We're all one of a kind, and so am I, and so are you, so tell me, Is there anything, just one thing, in the marbled arteries and veins I'm showing you, That look even the slightest bit memorable or fascinating? I can't write my life into my organs and blood vessels, Somehow, it's impossible for the poetry of my emotions and dreams To leave my lungs like breath and form a visible cloud of vapor in the cold. Somehow, it's not at my command, and I envy, how I envy... I envy too much, and as this toxic vasodilator spreads through my body, The vessels become all the more swollen and ugly, And then even I can't look at them. But in the middle of the night, in winter, with sore hands bitten by the cold And shaking, tired arms, I began to argue with this throbbing in my ears. Within me, there is no movement. There is no revolution nor thunder, There are no moments of revelation, not a single tremor of the earth. I can hope, maybe, someone who has seen the rain before, Will look at what escapes me and say "The rain is beautiful". If I must place my faith in anything, it is that it is some sort of rainfall, That it will be noticed for a moment, either enjoyed or rejected, And then it will quietly leave and become one of many sky-waters seen. And so let it be that way! The rain falls because it falls, Not so that it may be seen. And I must let that rain leave the clouds of my mind, and fall to the earth, Not sideways, nor upwards, and I'm not sure yet how to tell My inner laws of physics to tell gravity to pull the rain out successfully, Since I spent so many years carrying backed-up frozen water. (This is not truly relevant to anyone but me, either.) I clumsily painted a lop-sided portrait of Eros and hung it up on my wall, And happily waxed poetic about the moon to nobody in particular, It felt good. Maybe it is pathetic, But maybe being pathetic is a privilege of being human.  |
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