the blues is a chair, not a design for a chair or a better chair . . . it is the first chair. It is a chair for sitting on, not for looking at. You sit on that music.
shades drawn… lights dimmed
The beast outside has been fed.
Fade deep into the Armchair…
elegant burning within my head:
The flame upon a vigil candle
in a draft-less corridor.
Feeling and daylight make
Up a waxy fuel.
night evanescences into day.
The hungry beast calls out,
Like the divine to Lazarus…
And feeds on Legion’s despair.
—poem circa 2002, while coping with rapid cycling symptoms.
The origional post with this poem Claustrophobia has a typo in the image that I was to lazy to fix.
this the poem again with a new image, just in time for halloween!
Gothic nightmare of Edgar Allan Poe:
Trapped in a pine box six feet below!
Tranquil sleep awakens to fright:
No more movement, breathe, or light!
Gothic nightmare of modern day life:
Material, personal, emotional strife.
Hypnotic routines are suddenly broken:
No more freedom for the awoken.
Infants are comfortable in the womb:
Isolated slumber in safe cocoons.
Then their eyes open to the black,
Provoking the flight to human contact.
Babe’s first reach toward mother’s breast
Is his hands first stretch away from loneliness.
When babe grows up he’ll perceive a shock,
Of other hands squeezing him into a box.
Surreal illusion of Edgar Allan Poe:
Dead and alive at six feet below.
Claustrophobia is in the conflict
Not in the structures of boxes or crypts.