Monday, March 3, 2008

With apologies to Bulgakov and Jagger

I strode wet-thighed across Flanders Fields;
I turned the gunner's hands to ice two miles above.
I am the wheeling birds that know the taste of beggar
And of child and of salt.
I am the smell of wet leaves in the dark,
The yawning scream, the white eyes.

You are me. We are you.

2 comments:

P said...

Explain? Your work? Bulgakov doesn't translate this well and Sympathy for the Devil doesn't get this in depth. If it's yours, wow, fantastic, and painfully sharp. It reminds me of Stephen King's description of Randall Flagg as the man who can see across the desert and "he who calls the rats".

S R Wood said...

Yes, I wrote this, trying to figure out what the Dark is. What it wants and what it's proud of and who it is.

Bulgakov (I learned) wrote The Master and Margerita, said to be the inspiration for Sympathy for the Devil. Now I just need some earsplitting guitar licks. Barww! Byearrrww! Be-be-beBERRROW!

It scared me when I wrote it. Where in the world does this stuff come from?