Get up, Federico.

You are a flattened tire
folded over a hanging wire
like a Salvador Dali picture
Of clocks melting in the fire.

Well,
Isn’t it avant-garde,
How your posed in such a way
That your body is displayed
To soon be sold away.
Get up, Federico.
Go home.

I know, We could be
Hangnails of the eyes,
Catching the looks of strangers
Studying the arm around my shoulder
Shielding children’s sight
from the wonder.

And, yes, I maybe be into theater,
The attention and dramatics,
But I’ve got a lot to live for
And I’m not about to risk it.
Get up, Federico.
Go home.

In my head,
I’m a surrealist,
So I know a place where we’re possible
But I know it doesn’t exist yet,
So I will turn the other cheek until
I can be more then lyrics
With which you fumble and struggle
To mold into my image
But you find words are less malleable
Then my hands, myself,
My heart, and my help.

Oh, The persistence of memory
Will never let me
Forget these things
That sting my mind
From the back of my eyes
Until my tear ducts erupt
And build up and cry:

For God’s sake,
Get up, Federico.
Get up and go home.
I don’t want you here anymore.
Your not the muse I’m looking for.

Get up, Federico.
My casa by the sea
Isn’t where you’re meant to be.

You’re a crime against humanity
Beneath the dying olive tree.
You’ll finally find peace,
But it won’t be next to me.


Get up, Federico.
copyrighted 2009 by Theo Martin.