. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Jim Zimmerman

Don't ask me about this one... I don't know where it came from or why. It just came. Fell out of my head, down my arm, onto the pen and then the page... And now it's here...




Jim Zimmerman,
Jim Zimmerman,
It's quite what you do,
It's what you do to us,
And quite what you do.
Your fancy soldiers' teeth line your shelves
and grin,
War relics of the shouting mouths of boys who've been.

Plucking them from the ground,
You combed bygone battlefields,
Molars and incisors and canines
line your shelves
and grin,
The talking tools of long dead men.

They say we'll go to dust,
And before we were made
we were made from such stuff,
But you tell us otherwise,
You say it everyday,
Standing freely over our simple cages,
You say:

Little Children in an iron womb,
In the smallest time of your life,
There are bones in your bodies,
But I will not break them,
There are hearts alive in your small chests,
But I will not stop them,
I will grow you into men myself,
Raise you like chickens,
Raisons pruned once grapes before,
I will make you soldiers,
Little Fighting Men,
to die, to die, to die,
By the choice of another soldier's will,
And many years from now
I'll come along and pick out your teeth from the battlefield.

Jim Zimmerman,
Jim Zimmerman,
It's quite what you do,
It's what you do to us,
And quite what you do.
Your fancy soldiers' teeth line your shelves
and grin,
War relics of the shouting mouths of boys who've been.

Plucking us from our playground perches,
We've been stolen from our mothers' breasts,
Nights of caged and grinless screaming children
line your trophy hall,
The darkness of your gift creeps upon us all.

They say we'll go to dust,
And before we were made
we were made from such stuff,
But you tell us otherwise,
You say it everyday,
Standing freely over our simple cages,
You say:

Little Children in your fleshly tombs,
Sleep well, sleep well this long night,
Your fragile bones will swell and grow,
Under guidance from my loving hand,
Nurtured minds tortured to fruition,
In the blackness of my trophy hall,
I will water you into men myself,
Drip-drop the essentials you need for life,
It's soldiers' teeth I need for mine,
And I will make you soldiers,
Little Fighting Men,
to die, to die, to die,
I'll miss your childrens' sounds but still,
Many years from now,
We'll find each other once again reunited on the battlefield.

2.2007






1 comment:

  1. big fancy hug for this one, imaginary friend.

    ReplyDelete