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  You are @ HomeAdults Poetry


Source: Adults

Author: jonny graham

Title: Deep Echo.

Snugged up , at about 03:30 a.m.
Pre-dawn , when the soul is at it's lowest ebb ,
I detect the dull life-force dub-a-dub
of my own ventricles.
From deep within me.
And somewhere in globes' oceans ,
cruelly persecuted whales sing and swim.
Those happy fluke-slappers are without time.
But mans' concept rules and restrains me.

Happy Japenese fit explosive heads ,
with ominous lock and load ,
to bastard harpoon slaughter artillery pieces ;
and listen to the whale symphony
on murderous sonar recievers
from easy distance .
Prepare hauling chains , and sharpen blubber slicer cleavers .

Somewhere Snow-White stabs her finger with a needle ,
and stains virgin snow blood red with drops .
And in the house of the rising sun
all the clocks have momentarily stopped .
Time holds it's breath ,
and stands still ,
in the nano-second that is now .
In that infinitesimal moment , there is no tense .
Quantum physics can teach you how .
But to whales...it makes but little sense .

The Blue Whale is very impressive , and large .
One hangs in a room in South Kensington ,
on public view , touristically de-blubbered .
Gawpers rubber-neck and check it ,
Livingstons' gift , free of charge .

Deadly explosive Japanese death-darts
commit crimes and trail ropes
in rough and stormy southern seas .
And when the harpoon is deeply driven home
panic surges and nosedives with drowning hope.
Sea spray gouts of whale anger , foaming red .
What does a whale sing when it's life is endangered ?
Do the javelins of narrow minded blubber lovers
saw on the strings of such an orchestrated death ?

A prince kneels by a dusty casket
and whispers Snow-Whites name .
And any clock that ever stopped , starts counting time again .
For Snow-White and the whale
things will never be the same because of pain .
Time passes through the world invisible ,
not tangible ,
like the lightning in a Van-Der-Graph generator .
And the struggle of life turns full circle .
Catches up with itself , sooner or later .

In deep oceans , there are deep echos ,
as whales listen to their pulsing aortas .
At 03:30 a.m. I am snugged up ,
listening to the storm kissing the window pane ,
disturbed by thoughts of oceanic slaughter .

Published on writebuzz®: Adults > Poetry

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