Rubber Rhythm: Mark Pethtel
Bot and Sould
I know why you did it.
You were scared.
Swarmed by persuasive desires and soul devouring cultures.
Carrion for the vultures, guaranteed like our departure.
Scorned by those who once warmed you.
Warned that any slip would be the last order.
With no fan to mourn you.
I don’t blame you. It was all just too easy.
Reality’s searing touch became too much.
A kiss that burned you with resent every time you remembered.
Then a crutch. Overwhelmed and addicted, powerless and a victim,
alone in your sickness. Cursed and spurned to be wicked.
How could you not find him. How could you avoid the touch.
So calming and certain. So strong and secure.
Made to charm you, stolen from All to disarm you.
A safe haven, a place to finally rest, out of the storm, get the cold out of your chest, out of the wind, out of your worst or your best.
A friend, to have and hold and pose when you couldn’t even behold yourself in the mirror without shaking. Slowly and surely you were beaten and made for the taking.
Slowly and surely you were put in line.
This order became your order. Their rules, your law.
And guilt, and shame.. and judgement.
To carry around and burden you. Wary of ways that may unburden you.
Because you’ve grown attached.
I don’t blame you.
It’s in repetition we define relevance. It’s in renovation that we repair.
If it were but we had the tools. As solemn or solid your persuasion and abilities
the light had left. You searched for keys in a dark room, barely known. Left in weed far overgrown,
but don’t bemoan,
your circumstance is great and fate could just be yours to take,
if you can bear the weight;
if you don’t dare escape, even when it sounds to good to be fake.
Glorious, warlike, and spurious in my conquest,
if I get none, none a-y’all a’ rest,
in my fits ill take the war vest.
Puff my chest and wear it,
proud of bad news, I’ll be the bearer, spear it with spirit,
a soundstar, volumous and voluminous in its outgrowth: unrefined and ruined.
Sonically challenging you to hear it
Socially challenging, you should fear it.
Leering from behind, then in front: up in the clearing.
Fear it or love it, like I said fuck it.
It’s perishable, carried and buried in rubble, lacking in raritude stumped by
but not swamped
in the lewd death of marriage to delirious meanderings of sharing truth
all of us are found in, parallels abound and.. even with
no one sound in harmony, let it carry you
non-descript, lacking vision, set or script,
stayin’ ripped, between the light and the shine
but starin’ fixed, and your antics you cherish I just find hilarious
a viscount too serious, thats why you stay curious
whats behind the eyes of a knight so vicarious..
If you liked Mark’s poetry, check out his band Eye Wonder here.