my knowledge--best thriving on card-board
livers and gray-veal pages--
is the Ivory Tower.
I am the gloating resentment of everyday.
I am silence, its disconcerting
narcissism. In a corner, watch me swell
and redden, explode in finite,
twinkling
ideas.
I am the Ivory Tower,
its quiet intellectuals, grateful liberals who
only see torture in novels and
historical
accounts. Our language is slow and painful.
we have white skin, like the sick, imposing
Aryans.
we live and breathe and communicate within
walls
inside, stifled, deliberately choking on
knowledge. we know war through
Hemingway, violence through Palahniuk,
drugs through Hunter S.
but none of these we know through
ourselves
these walls--
white ivory, pure and untainted--have, like curtains
drawn themselves
and closed.
we venture out only
when it is safe
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Sometimes sober. Sometimes not. Always yours.
2 comments:
Oh, I do like this one, dear shadow!
Hunter S.T. The loathing I know. Back in those days, we had no fear. Never made it to Las Vegas though. Damn it!
Your sarcasm was dripping from the Ivory Tower. I felt something bonk me on the forehead, so I came to see what was what. Glad I did!
The droppings were whiter than white. Good shot!
Hello! UT
thanks, uncle tree :)
i can't say i'm a hunter s. but i've had my fair share of adventures.
the poem's tone was meant to be sarcastic, so i'm quite glad you've received it that way.
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