An aborted song

This is an aborted poem. Have stared at it for long. I refuse to work out a final paragraph. The girl beneath is contrapuntal to the poem: she, it appears, is not entertaining questions and has all the answers. Why do girls, sometimes, appear to have all the answers?

What are you searching for in the
Cleavages of clouds, in the
Winds in the weeds in the grass?

Whom are you searching out in the
Ribbons of crowds, in the
Skies full of digital dust?

What are you searching in the
Words you have hurt, in the
Echoes that you’ve heard in the halls?

Whom are you searching in the
Names you have spurned, in the
Bodies which are waiting to be balled?

There is nothing worth searching
When the angels are dead and stoned
The lord has forsaken the poets
And the poet in the lovers is mourned
It is jigging time…

Mid-youth rants

Leonard Cohen wrote in a wall on Mountain Street, Montreal the following lines: ‘Marita/Please find me/I am almost 30′. Just took off from that point. I don’t know if ‘forlorn’ and ‘gulliver’ can be used as verbs (I know why I used the former and have no clues about the latter). I am worried about the last line; it is too loaded. why did I write this?

***

Marita, forlorn me, I am running out of 30s
To raw to be sublime, too fine to be earthy
Too foggy for a clear-sky eye all over you mooning
Too confounded to ring true and lesser mettle to prove it
I need profundities to sweeten the truth
I need a veil of vaseline to ease it in you
I need woolen things when the wind is too rude
I need a soft pencil to blacken a few
Forsake me for a younger one
Recycle me out when its stale and done
Gift me back a fire to burn in
In this windy turn…

I have mastered words
I can twist a speech
But have not chewed
A fiber called feelings
For a good long time
And I long for those years
When I groped for words
And my eyes betrayed
The lyrical dust
And my nickel and dimes
I transact now
With credit cards…