A Scientist. A Manuscript.

Beautiful reader, take me to bed with you.
While you read this, make my words
Dance on your eyelids.
Make me silent with your death wish.
You already did.
And I escape into your abyss
But you, you keep reading it.
Let me play with the words, like they are
under and in you.
Let me bring my running stanzas
To stop, and start,
Like death, and rebirth
Fuel you and charge you.
Only to disarm you.

What is in this, Glass?
What is this music doing to me?
The fingers play silently,
play violently on the keys.
Only to suppress me.
Only to depress me.
Only to believe maybe, there is something worth
Something
in me.
No Never, angel, heaven is a cancer.
No Never, devil, death, be my private dancer.
No Never, princess, your webs I can’t untangle.
Maybe I can.
Maybe you will love me.
Maybe.
Maybe, you will throw me away.
Like
this poem
just one more
piece of
paper.
to line your drawers with.
to wipe your mouth with.
to burn, or make liquid.

Just another scientist.
Just another manuscript.

 

 

Glass Poet

Maybe I am too manic for this song.
Maybe but I sing along anyway.
The void tells me to go away.
So I listen to what they say.
And I go.

 

 

Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His book Train of Thought, Poems from the Red Line was written in fits of anxiety on the MBTA Transit System in Boston MA. It is available from Oddball Magazine Publishing. He bleeds ink.

 

Image: Collage by Joan Pope