Leonard Cohen wrote in a wall on Mountain Street, Montreal the following lines: ‘Marita/Please find me/I am almost 30′. Just took off from that point. I don’t know if ‘forlorn’ and ‘gulliver’ can be used as verbs (I know why I used the former and have no clues about the latter). I am worried about the last line; it is too loaded. why did I write this?
***
Marita, forlorn me, I am running out of 30s
To raw to be sublime, too fine to be earthy
Too foggy for a clear-sky eye all over you mooning
Too confounded to ring true and lesser mettle to prove it
I need profundities to sweeten the truth
I need a veil of vaseline to ease it in you
I need woolen things when the wind is too rude
I need a soft pencil to blacken a few
Forsake me for a younger one
Recycle me out when its stale and done
Gift me back a fire to burn in
In this windy turn…
I have mastered words
I can twist a speech
But have not chewed
A fiber called feelings
For a good long time
And I long for those years
When I groped for words
And my eyes betrayed
The lyrical dust
And my nickel and dimes
I transact now
With credit cards…
Marita, Forlorn me, I am running out of 30s
I know no causes, vote for a well-honed party
All joie-de-vivre which chimed the twenties sounds thumbed and hackneyed
I know precise tears for the victims, hyperboles for the mighty
I have shook hands with the kings men, I’ve phoned a few
I can pick up guiles in the eyes of the ruled
Too old to unfold a hard-rock band, quite young somehow in my trade
At this age my poets and prophets were already hallowed, some were already dead
Deliver me off for a younger one
Pay me off for a daughter or son
Roll in a twist and a churning
In this mill-of-a-run…
I just overturn words
To drip a new meaning
Like I-love-you-s
To do-you-love-me-s
For a good short laugh
And I long for those years
When I will grope for the touch
And my age will betray
An yearning beyond past
And my paper-wafer skin and eyelights dim
Might convey sincerely how
Loneliness rusts…
It is too far off; I am running out of 30s
No wars to die it young, no wisdom to age it nerdy
Too dude for “Ma! I’m hungry!”
Too full to complain its empty
Forsake! Forlorn! Its too late to be born!
The jokers have baited me with a veil of a throne
I might refuse the ratty races, but would it make me late and slow
Too late to show the day the morning, too early to top the late-night show
Gulliver me for the younger ones
Just another chance to speed up the run
Try another trick, buy me another drink
I might be fun…
But I’m tired; don’t fight me
Really running short of stock
Too thrifty to gather a hedonist’s wit
Too shifty to lock you with an earnest talk
Something happens between a man and a woman
Therefore Sylvia Plath poems, thus Leonard Cohen songs
Marita, still find me, I am running out of 30s
If I can’t be your teddy, I might be your dog
If you need a re-run, I am always ready
To die in your chamber, night or fog…
Posted in Poems: Dreams in Rhythm
