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Another 37, Day 5

The words to this song
are the notes to the tune that is
based on this song that I’m writing,
right now,
I hear behind me the electric sizzle of the guitar strings
screech away
like synapses
in my brain, that imagines them,
loud and resonant and screaming all around me
I hear it, and it moves me
to write the same song
that is playing

It sounds like the taste of a madeleine
I dipped into the tea of my waning years
when I was just a child, short and intense
and balding
with giant eyes within which I sat,
staring at myself
through the lens of the letters
of the lines of the words
you are reading right now,
a memory I just invented
inspired by a dream I plan to have
tomorrow about my future childhood,
from way back then
back when things weren’t done yet

And the song is a conversation
at the same time
with itself,
recursive
letters, in a script you can see if you stand
far enough away from this poem and watch
as it flows

A song which becomes aware of itself
once you let it go
fire it out of the cannon of words into the battlefield
where the waiting audience waits,
hungry
to devour it,
but right now it’s embryonic,
as it discusses itself with itself,
unable to know itself, unable to set,
underbaked
if you stick a conceptual toothpick in the middle
it comes out gooey

And now I, the poem, the song,
unconceived, in progress, complete,
will finish myself, with myself,
aware that my awareness is a lie
and that the words that make up my bones
and my ambitions are just pixels,
that make shapes,
that make letters,
that make words,
that make lines,
that make verse,
written by a writer, who is me, but won’t admit it
because it would disrupt my poem,
and because he’s a writer
and we’re stubborn that way.

 

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