Your Favorite ChairIn Litterateur, Poetry
You were sitting on your favorite chair
Holding your sin of the day
Reflecting with such a stare
That seemed crying for help
Begging me to take it away
Although it became a stub.
I did so, and you said no
“Leave it, dear” you couldn’t stop
Apparently it was a dream.
I heard your cough of the night
Thought about your rapture in the morning
There’s no comparing in sight
Your ecstasy was more important
As it seems.
An artist is more appreciated
And met with respect
When he’s either suffering or love-drunk
And of course that accustomed haze around him
That I’ll never forget
Would scroll up like an Indian call
And summon the muse of hymn and create
She’d struck him with words and all
An addict for electrical revealing to stimulate
Would scribble it down and firework with it.
These are the characteristics
The genius artist must have
And most of them live their lives
Only to reach it’s half.
What kind of pride you’ve got?
And you call yourself a man of god
What senseless creature you’ve become?
Sacrificing your own soul for a drug
Where have gone your knowledge,
Intellect and honorable tongue
Seeking the pious way only for fun
Starve your soul, and let it be smothered
When confronted you get stumped
Why? And why take off your smug?
Claiming to be brave and still
Not admitting the sentence you put on yourself
Calling for god and he might forgive
But why d’you put his words on the shelf?
Why does a man lie?
Why does a man kill?
Who knows, maybe it’s life
Makes a man a man
And sometimes not
Which one are you?
I might be young
And I might be blunt
But I’m a man through and through
Red eyes, mine were
And yours also.
Mine were by the scanty anger
That lids my jar of fright and woe.
Yours were by the scanty will
And effort that won’t do.
At last, as I expected you surrender.
The fiery caprice’s smoke slides
From under the bathroom door
It won’t ask me for help. So, I will not answer.
Your slanting aged building with an ever active chimney
Can’t take it anymore.
The incessantly oblivious soul would be its killer.
Deny deny, that’s all you do
A child rummaging through the cloudy sky
With his eyes, looking for a mortal feather.
I refuse to be like you, but I am.
Write, sing, watch and disbelieve
Lost between an artist and a fan.
Tea after tea, coffee after coffee,
Like sugar, unsalted eyes and a Jazz band.
Speeches were told not only for me
I listened, you never did. A bloody man.
Yes, the father’s daughter is ungrateful,
Just like him, bites the giving hand.
A raft floating here and there,
Averting the beacon house,
Playing blind and dumb
Can’t moor anywhere.
Your branded hand is too numb
Can’t sew every cut and tear,
Before the angels come,
And on your soul prey.
you can’t hear our joyful hum
From the bottom where you’ll stay.
If you’d only get out of your favorite chair.
If you’d only get out of your favorite chair.”
Taken from Mayo’s collection.