Thursday, March 19, 2009

Elegy 1

I have come directly from confidence.
Kicked myself off of its tile walls and careened into the scraped mewlings again.
Quaver and glisten. The convex pressures on the lobes don’t fail to deliver.
Something like an animal that’s eaten its leash.
It’s raining.
Gag on the fiber. Intestine isn’t master’s hand.
Retain peristaltic control. Inferior.
Dwell on the word and its null.
The evidence of people all around. No quick escape.
The smell of fresh dirt and wet.
Sopping flowers like cardboard in the downpour. Why does it always rain?
Already halfway into next year.
Numb feet. Temporary lapse of empathetic nodes.
Suddenly on the wire looking at the ones after the crumbs.
In the dirt.
On the grass.
By the stones.
Surely left a window open. The rain gets in.
Paper flying everywhere. Turmoil.

And in slow motion, the handfuls of sod while some weepy bastard makes his way from a studio straight to the slow-churned loins of every worn emotional receptacle. Receptacles, that’s what they are. Try not to smile, though. It really wouldn’t look right.

Posted by Maurice in 03:44:20
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