Pierre Makes



    Here's some poetry.


    I will tell her
    While my ears still ring
    With those arhythmic screeches
    That she cannot sing
    Her talking voice is cream and peaches
    But pitched? I cannot stand the thing
    I will tell her

    I won’t tell her
    While she sings, she smiles
    And that makes me grin
    And bear it:
    She takes her soul and bears it, while
    To shoot the Mockingbird’s a sin
    Hers is more the squawking style
    I won’t tell her

    I listen and my brain is split
    My eyes fixed firmly to the clock
    I need to run and yet I sit
    Between the hard place and the rock


    I am dammed so crops can grow
    So they can reap what they can sow
    It is rot that feeds the land
    Smell the flowers; I am dammed.

    I am dammed by wall of stone
    Yet years ago my power alone
    Turned stone to pebble, pebble to sand
    They built too high, and I am dammed

    Past the world, I used to run:
    To feel the wind, to feel the sun.
    Before the wall, still I stand
    I used to run, but I am dammed

    It is strange, this damming curse,
    I do not change, but I feel worse.
    I’d climb it, but I’ve no hands.
    This wall is mine, and I am dammed.

    What shape was I, before the wall?
    Did I flow? Did I fall?
    So neat and clean, and all to plan:
    I am the wall; I am the dam.