My Own Home

Why has nobody ever sampled My Own Home from Jungle Book?





Pogo has done a lot of remixes, like this one...

 

... but nothing from Jungle book that I can find.

Don't Break the Spine

There has not been
One dog eared page
In any book I've sampled
From the library I depend on.

Is it out of sheer respect
For the author and his toil?
Or is it a much more fatiguing thought
That none of these books
Have been read before me?

Considering A Drink

The room is littered

With glass half full bottles

Of liquid stress depressants.

Memories are dried

Around the lips of plastic cups,

and brown American bottles.

We spoon lie together,

Clenching to the thin fleece heat of each other.

And I'm considering another drink.

Summer Cabbage

Summer cabbage is missing.
If you've seen him or her,
Please don't let them go.
It's not a comfortable place for cabbage
Underneath the winter's snow.

Not Enough Skeletons

The clock snaps
Loud
Judging from the wall
Telling me I need to move
Reminding me I'm lazy
Reminding me
Today could have been
The most Productive day of my life
If I had only awoken
An hour ago
I lay there
Skin Loose
Joints more comfortable
Than they have been in weeks
Knowing the clock tells the truth
But all I can think
Is there aren't enough skeletons in my closet.

Translation

It's that I like your face,
Your hair.
I like to dream with your voice,
When you say I love you,
like I hug you,
Get lost in your scent.
Being able to find heaven in your eyes.
I love your laugh,
I like your face,
I like to think that for me,
You.
Crazy how I want you to feel,
Me,
calm.
And when night comes,
take care of the soul.

Boars Can High Dive Too

Last night I watched two wild boars
Leap in unison from a high dive board
When I closed my eyes.
I questioned how they could be
So aerodynamic covered in tufts of hair.
The tranquil dream repeated,
Great sounds of splashes ringing
In my unconscious ears.
Their bodies twisted and turned,
Contorting into marvelous shapes,
Like Olympians desperate for gold.
These were not the brutish demons
Lurking in island jungles
With glowing eyes.
These were not blood thirsty
Carniverous beasts.
These were rather elegant,
skillful, hairy angels,
Soaring from the platforms of my mind,
Exploding into lakes of placid sleep
Enlightening me,
That boars can high dive too.

Statuette

There's a little African diety
That watches over the growth of my plants.

Under The Lampshade

The birch limb outside is winter,

Frozen, caked over with ice.

You're on the windowsill, taken,

Laughing, black-eyed at the light.

The language of moths is lunar.
You chew the invertebrate's craze.
This is life under the lampshade,
Eternally caught in the blaze.