The Sculptor (AKA: A commercial radio song)

 

This feels like an affinity piece to Hallucinogenic sister 

This is... The Sculptor (AKA: A commercial radio song)

Globules of morbs rolling off my form.
Organ pipes squeal and moan when fingers hit the keys.
Begging me onward: “harder".
Sabre for a spine, so everything en garde!
Sharpening strife from notes and notes from me.
My self-harmer, snake-hipped charmer.
With love of Pan, the sculptor
Gazed upon this work and put down the hammer.
No one could agree on what the shape was meant to be.
For all eyes on it, the shape was different.
For all hands on it, the shape was different
Didn't understand the shape
was too painfully beautiful to behold.

This shape doesn't do this emptiness justice.
Trying to form it from the waste is:
The non-existent past. The dust.
Cotton that grows cold.

Gravity pulls            out in waves.
Months stretch like years to get this way.
Nothing more moths vomiting mulch from decay.
Trying to shape this elemental absence from you.
Feelings poisoning ground wherever Time once grew.
Bloodied mind writhing tied to late summer vines.
Body crackling like crisped, frosted fallen leaves.
Imploding with a pressure of a thousand seas.
Keep centering to a centre that cannot hold.
A shifting shape I cannot mold.
A shape to lay with.
A shape to fall
down
the
cracks with.
An added line.
To slip in between.
A shape to be with, to be there
in the depths of despair of yours and mine.
A shape that fits the puzzle, a piece shaped universally.
A shape that recognises
shapes no one else can see.

A shape that dispels noise with resonating music.
This pipe organ keeps sounding out the notes.
Throwing anything overboard that floats.
The chords, jagged like river rapids.
Heart of meat, the wolves can have it.
It's the plasm spirit that I don't want ripped asunder.
So I hit the resin keys harder to try to hear the echo and wonder
If you are aware I still try to play the harmonics I hear in thunder.

Sweat rolls down off the coffin.
Pallbearers squeal and moan with each step of the carry.
Begging me on: "How much can you take?"
Jaw like a vice, only clenched when awake.
The shape, a shadow from the lashing flame.
What shape is heat and cast-off light?
Some believed the shape must have inner sculpting.
Cogs to be swapped: one for another or another.
Others said the shape was at once each of the four seasons.
Within it there must be moons of orbital gardens.
Flowers in full bloom or withered by shade.
Perfection made an ecosystem in constant imperfection.
Spirits for botanicals.
Such was the sculptor's marvels.
But they couldn't understand.
The shape and them are contortions held in perfect suspension.
Between loss and lost clinched in macabre shaped occasion.