Monday, June 27, 2011

The Rose

[Here's a poem that me and David Loti matched up with The Rose by Bette Midler. It's a poem-song.]

Some say love, it is a river
That drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor
That leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger
An endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower
And you, its only seed

I say love is five kicks to the junk
a sugar-high, and a hangover.

It makes you feel all sorts of things
all at the same time:
leaves you unsure
whether you’re laughing or sobbing;
your heart is smiling
while your colon is feeling pensive
and your liver can’t shake
an overwhelming sense of impending doom.

Love makes you want to listen
to a strange medley of ACDC,
Hank Williams, and Marvin Gaye.
It’s the most beautiful thing in the world
that makes you puke every time you see it.

Love gives you intense vertigo
then forces you to free-climb mountains.

It's the heart, afraid of breaking
That never learns to dance
It's the dream, afraid of waking
That never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken
Who cannot seem to give
And the soul, afraid of dying
That never learns to live

I have no idea how love
enjoys such a great reputation.
It is a porcupine fetus
you give birth to
every time they brush up next to you
or laugh at your jokes.

It makes you want to punch Bette Midler
square in the face
even as you nod in complete agreement
to the sappy lyrics of song
you know you’re supposed to hate .

It’s a peaceful-easy-feeling
that pushes a Rototiller
straight through your guts.
It’s a railroad tunnel
painted on the side of a cliff
that you believe every damn time.

When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snow
Lies the seed
That with the sun's love,
In the spring
Becomes the rose

They say
when skiers get caught-up in an avalanche
their brains get knocked around,
so that when they finally stop
they can’t tell which way is up.
When they start digging
they’re just as likely
to go down as up. . .
Love is like that
except warm and nice smelling.

Love may be a flower,
but it’s not a kindly one.
It’s one of those spikey-asshole flowers
that everyone seems adore
despite it’s proclivity
for dolling out scrapes,
cuts, and other stinging injuries.

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