Thursday, October 8, 2009

The Tale of the House and the Man Made of Stone

Here's a picture of me standing in front of some Damien Hirst spin art. Why? Because someday I will destroy him. Now here's some emo poetry to accompany your breakfast. I haven't written anything in a long while, probably because I've been so busy making my transition to DeeeeKalb, Illinois. This worries me a bit. I need to get back into it.

Well I built you a house, on top of a hill,
with a little red door and little white window sills.
All of the things you expected from me,
a white picket fence and a room for a baby.
I built up the walls with the finest of timber,
a little stone fireplace, for the cold winters,
a small little kitchen, for making our meals,
a porch in the back for the nights we'll spend dancing
alone in the moonlight, under the stars,
so far from the city, no traffic from cars.
Well I built it all up, then tore it all down.
Despite strong foundation it fell to the ground,
'cause you would not live here, you left me alone.
I'm just a house, I was never your home.
These rooms will stay empty, the yard overgrown,
a note in the mailbox, with words that you'd written in stone.

So I built you a statue of hard stone and clay.
I worked through the nights and I slept through the days.
My back started burning, my arms were so sore,
but I kept on building and building some more.
Well I built up a man, with a heart made of stone,
the flesh of my flesh, the bone of my bone.
His gaze never faltered, he stood on two feet,
with a spear in one hand and a bottle half empty.
I built you a monument that stood oh so tall,
that the weight on his shoulders would cause him to fall,
and as the man crumbled he rolled down the hill,
and into the ocean to where he lies still.
As he sunk to the bottom he noticed a whale,
with skin made of ivory and jewels on her tail.
She blew tiny bubbles that turned into glass,
that danced on the waves as the ships all sailed past.
The sailors all dancing for joy with their rum,
would shoot the glass bubbles with bright silver guns.
They sang drunken songs of a man made of stone,
who'd built many houses, but not any homes,
and he lie in a bed that looked more like a grave,
with a blanket so dark, made of salt water waves.
He lies wide awake in the darkest abyss,
with the thoughts of her touch and her warm perfumed kiss.

On a night when the ocean was pulled by the moon,
and the waves would crescendo to build sailor's tombs,
the man kept on staring straight up to the sky,
and his hard stony gaze could not let the man cry.
Holding tight to his spear with a grip just like death,
warding off any evil that might take his last breath,
after many long years the man wanted to stand,
but couldn't for now he was buried in sand.
Though he struggled to move and he had a strong will,
and he longed to be back on the top of that hill,
there would be no long journey, for his legs were hard stone.
He was not a real man, but you'd never have known.
He still felt like a man, way deep down inside.
He was stubborn and strong, with a chest full of pride,
and he knew that one day he would be back at home,
standing tall on a pedestal, like a king on a throne.
But tonight he will lie and tonight he will wait.
He will ponder the future of his cold stone fate.
But don't ever have pity for this stone of a man,
for this was just part of a much greater plan.
Someday this statue will represent good,
admired by other men carved out of wood.
Though sea salt and sand will bring age to his face
it is only a testament to his wisdom and grace.
For you see, men who sink, they must learn how to swim
and the greatest of men, well they sank just like him.
And while some men build houses and some men build homes,
the greatest of men are those carved out of stone.

1 comment:

  1. John, I think this is beautiful. Did you happen to catch that Monster Hour show at Pleasant Street? After reading this, I think the art and the writer who inspired the work would be right up your alley. His name is Zachary Schomburg. I have a book of his.. I will lend it to you.