The Natatorium

An emporium of oddities from around the world, complete with somewhat informative plaques that almost never match the item they are meant to be describing.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

They Are Not Really Poems But They Are Text And So I Shall Post Them.

Because I'm going to take what I can get at this point.

Summer Poem #1

So many summers I followed you,
From venue to venue
over warm, gritty cement.

Weaving your way through
the downtown dives,
you gave me something to do,
a scent to follow,
a sense of purpose,
however meaningless.

Your voice always made it to my ears
through the din of drums, shouting,
the screaming drunk people,
and the band upstairs.

I sat in a corner to watch,
if I felt pretentious,
or moshed with the boys
when I didn't care.

I gazed at you through the dirty air
and I loved you.

When your album came out on on vinyl,
I bought a new Hi-Fi, my first record player
(because I'm really not that cool),
just to watch your voice spin round and round on my turntable,
even though I'd had the CD for years and been one of the first to hear it,
and had all the flat notes memorized.

When you left and moved on to bigger & better things,
home wasn't quite home anymore.

And I don't know if it's because you took the music with you
or if it's because the little blinking light I followed through those yellow-lit nights is gone,
but when summer comes around I still crave you more than ever, just like always.

After a long cold winter of isolation and work,
when I feel the air warm,
I think of you.

And I probably always will.

Summer Poem #2

Flying down the empty black highway,
the thick night coursing through my hair,
Bloc Party coursing through my veins,
I have finally, temporarily,
caught up with an elusive taste
of freedom.

Wisps of hairs lick at my ears like moths
and I imagine I could
keep driving,
keep driving,
keep driving,
away and on forever
until I reached You

And I know that there is an ocean in there somewhere.
But in my mind, I just drive forever and then I'm back
where I should be,
where most of me still is,
and I'm whole again.

And this half-life, this slave that isn't me,
is just a fading, unhappy memory
of a dream that never was,
because I'm back where I belong,
back where no one knows who I used to be
and I'm


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