Babylon--Part 1 Morning Mourning by Christopher J. Greggs Lyrics
The Night—
a common stalker,
dressed in a camisole of air,
a Holy-Her,
like Polina Semionova
—has left.
I scratch,
feeling a little over even,
& want to walk off the earth
before the sound-sweep
of subways, & late-legs,
& second cups of coffee
complain through the window.
I leave my sleep
with dreams of snow flakes and sarcodes,
scored by the chin-music of C-Span
& the refrigerator-logic of words
like “freedom”.
The egg-whites are consoling,
& suggest a split between vice & virtue,
a religion of the morning
punned with the question
“How are you?” & the word
“mourning”.
I reach for this poem
& strut onto the sidewalk
of this treadmill city
unaware that the price
of slowing down
is to fall.
a common stalker,
dressed in a camisole of air,
a Holy-Her,
like Polina Semionova
—has left.
I scratch,
feeling a little over even,
& want to walk off the earth
before the sound-sweep
of subways, & late-legs,
& second cups of coffee
complain through the window.
I leave my sleep
with dreams of snow flakes and sarcodes,
scored by the chin-music of C-Span
& the refrigerator-logic of words
like “freedom”.
The egg-whites are consoling,
& suggest a split between vice & virtue,
a religion of the morning
punned with the question
“How are you?” & the word
“mourning”.
I reach for this poem
& strut onto the sidewalk
of this treadmill city
unaware that the price
of slowing down
is to fall.