All contents copyright Mark Brunke. Any content may be shared, published, or used in a non-commercial or editorial medium with attribution.
it was a year
It was the best of years
The worst of years
It lent itself easy to paraphrase
Call me Bartleby
Call me anything
People just don't share their feelings
They leave them inside
So they don't catch a burning sun
And get left alive alone for winter
Falling in love and falling apart
Picking up the pieces
In looking we find, but ever
Do we find the missing?
Do we find the missing?
I wish I could see you again
Eyes of sapphire green and pink sleeves
Eating pizza and talking of Michaelangelo
These canned peaches
Were really something
And I'm just left drawing the label
no easy way through tomorrow
I've been worth desires and dreams
Weights that hold me to the bottom of the sea
There's a low hum while I sing this doom
There's a space I take in between rooms
Everybody laughs while I weigh to die Everybody cries while I fly away
I swim through the waters of ambition
I think the sky starts at the surface
I think when I breathe I drink sunlight
Sunlit and slight I make my move.
Is it you?
I'm going through my own voice
Out my head a broken screen
My mouth twisted silence
My words a wasted dance.
Scars from the blackouts
All over your life now
Scars from my blackouts
Imagine me down
They read like a roadmap
With some Jesus attraction.
I know your a fascination,
But I can't help but wonder
Why.
Why my voice, in silence blackouts,
In between rooms,
Imagines me down.
Your voice a mask on my pillow
Love doesn't move on
Mad barker in winter carnival
Empty.
No easy way through tomorrow,
In between rooms.
Is it you?
I opened a silent book, laid the words out,
Painted there pictures that measured
My weight out, followed my anchor
Into a bottomless trench.
It's not a new world on the other side,
It's just someone without.
It's it you?
O Black Sun
Oh, so lay down in this morning hour,
Darkness darkest there must soon be dawn.
O Soleil Noir, dors maintenant.
Let the Sun of day rise upon this room,
These trees, grace these walls not
With ever-present greyscale winter,
Waiting to fade loveless as love leaves
Us. Fade from my eyes Black Sun, fade.
Leave me to fall in winter, old, broken, in tears.
Leave me to why. Let ley lines upon my mind
Be just imagination, meanings this mortal
Machine made, cover them in mud and moss
But not this frost, be just driftwood
And I a fool on a beach, leave Leslie
To my memory eye, become driftwood forgetting.
In driftwood forgetting again, I go back
Into quiet, a lesser life lived if living
Is clarity and solitude. In my art I captured
That day, the day Sun burned my mind,
I lacquered flowers and grass that breathed
Their last in the fading hours fresh
In my impressions of love and confusion.
I see them here, black squares of tone
And time captured, slowly illuminated
By the morning. Their definition comes
To be as night fades unrequited.
the history of water
Slow lumbering beast
Lurking heart
Hidden beneath winter buffalo grass
Spring beneath the ice
Forming life
For the physical sky
there is a sacred sky
For the physical earth
there is a sacred earth
For the physical love
there is a sacred love
For the physical body
there is clay mixed with water
and you're coated in a second skin
that dries in the sun, a deep red
turns light brown, cracks
and peels, and your naked
and covered in dust, wind
bristles, wearing myth
in eternal return.
With your forefinger of your left hand
you touch your tongue and draw
an eye on your forehead
as the sun rises
and my deep voice, wordless
before your illumination,
is wordless before
your illumination.
For the physical sky
there is a sacred sky
For the physical earth
there is a sacred earth
For the physical love
there is a sacred love
For the physical body
there is clay mixed with water
and you're coated in a second skin
that dries in the sun, a deep red
turns light brown, cracks
and peels, and your naked
and covered in dust, wind
bristles, wearing myth
in eternal return.
With your forefinger of your left hand
you touch your tongue and draw
an eye on your forehead
as the sun rises
and my deep voice, wordless
before your illumination,
is wordless before
your illumination.
I make sad distributions
I make sad distributions
Of property
To feed
Such things
As pieces
I make a hand of musings
For inspiration
She is distant
And it's still
Still the only thing
I can draw paint from
And so I draw
Nothing
That's the evidence
Of something
Of property
To feed
Such things
As pieces
I make a hand of musings
For inspiration
She is distant
And it's still
Still the only thing
I can draw paint from
And so I draw
Nothing
That's the evidence
Of something
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