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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476998" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Wait. Wait. Wait For It To Come</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476998" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Wait. Wait. Wait for it to come, <br>the mad folly of my creative destruction. <br>Bleak the flowers in this ruinous garden <br>and my psyche speaking in tongues <br>like gates someone left open banging in the wind. <br>Bring on the storm. Uproot the lightning. <br>I will not run. I'll stand here steadfast <br>as an amputated stump in this open field<br>with a ghostly feeling I can grow my arms back<br>like a faith healer sitting like Stonehenge<br>in solstitial silence at the last broken window <br>snarling at the fixed stars that keep drifting <br>in and out of the asylum like a seance of fireflies <br>that's turned into an angry mob<br>looking for stars to martyr for not taking <br>their fanatical starmaps as literally as they do. <br>I'm an heretical astrologer tied to the axis mundi <br>of my own imagination. I read my doom, <br>cowled in candlelight like the skull of the full moon<br>scrying the entrails of a wounded bull <br>garlanded in laurels like a loveletter to the gods. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476998" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">My end without exit. My beginning without a door. <br>My backbone bent like a rafter from shouldering <br>this dance floor that's crippled me for life. <br>Should I paint my skin blue? Should I get a tattoo? <br>Should I carve a more fashionable deathmask <br>out of my heartwood and learn to lie like a man <br>acquainted with the truth? Should I go into battle naked <br>like a beserker sporting his own vulnerability <br>in the face of an enemy outraged by the insult? <br>I'm beating on a pinata of killer bees. <br>I'm cauterizing my nerves with the synaptic<br>welder's arcs of the stars until I'm numb as an alloy <br>of water and blood at the point of a sword <br>that's about to cut my throat like a ouija board<br>that's run out of answers and alibis for everything. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476998" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I'm jester to the divine sense of humour <br>of a moody goddess trying to decide if she's a crone <br>or a nymph. Too late for autumn. Too early for spring.<br>She falls through the cracks of time <br>like an old age pensioner. She is the muse <br>that takes the new moon from under my tongue <br>and throws it like a penny into a wishing well. <br>Good luck. I'm done. I've worn my bones out <br>like dice in a gambling den long enough. <br>Seven come eleven or snake-eyes, <br>it's all come around like Russian roulette to me. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476998" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I'm dissipating my intensity in the supernal immensities <br>that don't give a damn whether I exist or not. <br>The hurricane's out of the aviary. The singing-master's<br>dropped out of the choir of crows of the black mass <br>in the ashes of the infidels cherishing the leftover relics <br>in the sacred shrines of their fire pits, surrounded <br>by the boundary stones of their spiritual opulence. <br>I'm tired of mistaking a faithless face in a broken mirror <br>as an ultimate insight into life. There's nothing orthodox <br>about a labyrinth of cul de sacs. Nothing infernal <br>about a scapegoat driven out into the wilderness <br>by the sins of the tribe to graze on burning bushes. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476998" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I've read the gnostic allegory of my life <br>to loose-lipped interpreters in burning libraries <br>all over this country from one coast to the next<br>without being hexed like a nightbird <br>by their symbolic superstitions. And I've listened <br>for vital signs of life in neglected cemeteries <br>where no one's making love on the graves<br>to tempt the silence out of hiding its genius <br>like a birthmark under the headstone <br>of a prophetic paperweight with no voice of its own<br>to speak of were the wind not a shepherd of leaves <br>looking for greener pastures for its lost sheep.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476998" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I've done it right. Nothing less than everything <br>all the time. I've kept it all together like a night sky <br>that goes on forever like a crow with an eye <br>to the shining. I fletched my eyebeams like arrows<br>with the feathers of ospreys to bring down the stars <br>like messenger pigeons of the light with rumours of home. <br>I've broken the seal of my blood, like a scab on the moon, <br>or the immaculate sunspot of my word, to liberate<br>the mystic singularities at the bottom of a black hole <br>that promised them a better life on the other side <br>and hung a lantern in the tunnel of an oncoming thought train<br>that knew it could, knew it could, knew it could, <br>but didn't. What more could you ask, what <br>moeity of my life hasn't been devoted to the absurdity <br>of conducting sky burials in an orbiting observatory? </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476998" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I've sung for my supper, sex, money, fame and meaning.<br>I've raised my voice like an axe on behalf <br>of people on the receiving end of the stick<br>and I've brought my winged heels down hard <br>on the skulls of slack snakes on railway tracks<br>when it became clear as an X-ray to me <br>they weren't fledgling dragons and the babies <br>were as toxic as the adults. Retreads on black asphalt, <br>most of their books, shedding their skins <br>as if they were laying rubber on well published roads<br>lined with critical road kill. Everybody underestimating <br>the monstrosity of a mythically inflated ego <br>with the mass of a black dwarf that's imploded <br>on itself like the withered daylily of a weather balloon. <br>Imagine the rapture of frogs in the rain<br>blissed out on the highbeams that will crush them <br>like chocolates with strawberry hearts.<br>And everybody grieves like a sieve<br>for the mystic mishaps of the lesser vehicle <br>But poetry isn't a joy ride for petty thieves, <br>and there are dangerous hitch-hikers, thumbs up<br>on the backwoods highways at night out in the starfields <br>poaching the horns of unicorns to sell on a black market<br>that doesn't believe one miracle's ever enough.<br> <br>I may have been eclipsed by my own enlightenment, <br>but I can still shine. I radiate. I emanate. Every meteor's <br>got its radiant. And there are always stars in a poet's eyes <br>he hasn't got around to naming yet like diamonds in the rough. <br>My life might ring as hollow as an empty silo, <br>and yet I'm fulfilled. I'm ripe as the red end <br>of the spectrum, a windfall in the Hesperides, <br>all flavours of the lifesavers in the sunset. <br>My fear hasn't aged. My grief. My love. My imagination. <br>Strange recollections from dissonant hours, <br>I regret having mismanaged the retroactive exorcism, <br>of my childhood, but things get better the less they matter.<br>Even a shipwreck on the moon has oceanic powers <br>over the way the waters of life ride out the storm. <br>I take liberties with chaos and risk more than I have to lose, <br>bracing for the fall with an incommunicable form of the blues<br>that reconciles me to the unattainable by revealing <br>what's most human about me isn't a still life with apple piety, <br>not what I excelled at, but the bruise I achieved when I fell.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a></strong></div>