Highway Crucifixions and the Lazy Eyed Mystic

by Curt Allday

With hands outstretched
i'm content to let
this fresh meat
spoil in your sunflower
colored cupboard,
with its doors always closed
under the watch of your nose
and your
wandering sinister
enjoying glasses of gin with
a shit-eating grin,

why pin the doors down, are they never meant to be opened?

Is there something you don't want me to see
as you keep
up these
appearances, always impeding
my progress
the progress to move on
from your kitchen
into your bandaged
bedroom with its clandestine
doors and cracked mirrors
mystically and mysteriously
locked up by fledgling boards
and age old, masking tape

yet i cannot
and you cannot
and we cannot do
we then get
caught up and strung up along
fictitious Roman highways
with cord cutting through
cord of flimsy vasculature

as we endure the high noon heat
hitting the newly paved streets
boiling our bones
with feats of irrelevant
unable to turn back the clock
as time matures
and we have no lungs left,
they're bleached
by our troubled stories
unable to breathe,

but if only
to expire?

and so i retire back to my
original position,
my old stomping ground, while
you gather your strength
to stand up
the stench of your decaying
produce and deli meats

with the opaque kitchen door
only a vague trace of memory,

the winds pick it up
and shake it up
that institution as its
rather asinine demeanor
and condescending staff

stains and greys

like old transistor radios
leaving me altogether crushed.

i am so very crushed

but somehow I venture outside myself
and I see me there,
blowing in the wind,
a leaf meant to sour and fall
but all in all
I'm just simply a pine
ever to stay,
ever to needle its way
into the sides of another

as i venture north,
my head remains limp,
my arms lifeless,
my face pushed back,
my hairline receding
as I fly tied down
by waves of torrent breezes
freezing me in space and time

hanging above your ancient arts
and Babylon,
i learn nothing
i do nothing
i simply suffer in absurdity

with only pennies

in my pockets

i stand down and give in

to wind

and offer you



Author's Note: in a weird place in my life, I feel tied to a pole in the middle of a hurricane with all these stupid people on radio, TV, at school telling me THIS IS LIFE, THIS IS WHAT IT IS ABOUT! But in reality, these people are merely transitory, facades, deceiving you and me from who we wish to be...it is so simple, so cliche, but this is how i feel and this poem is merely an allegory

Posted on 09/09/2006
Copyright © 2022 Curt Allday

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by A. Paige White on 09/09/06 at 11:10 PM

Wow. Doesn't it feel good to just vent sometimes? You could feel the voice's frustrations and windy gyrations... floating a melancholia sea...
Great write!
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Posted by Kristi Paik on 09/11/06 at 07:56 PM

like old transistor radios leaving me altogether crushed. That by far is the best two lines on here. it clearly depicts your pain and frustration in one of the more unique ways i have read in a while. Thanks.

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