Tuesday, 9 November 2010

a few scattered thoughts

the simple
the small
the quiet need but for the tapping of keys,
remembering romantic nuances that other writers might've used
in their imaginary workspace in your own mind,
created without the necessary narrative of shitting and the rest of
life
the glass, with etched name was given by friends who wanted me to remember my sense of self and of grandeur.
the corrections made by my computer on my behalf, guarding my beliefs with the infallibility of good spelling
and
taking away the words that I have no use for
eventually
the water I drink
the pauses,
when
the inner critic takes it's hold on my throat
the feeling of anticipation before I realize that now is my chance
to name envy, a snake, which wraps around my throat and whispers doubt
and the poison of it's bite goes to the belly, and the heart
the failure of that anticipation
the regret of forced correction and
misused conjunctions.
overused punctuation
punks with I pods eating big tastys across thousands of miles
correctly informed of what the rest of the world expects
almost defiant in his conformity
I am scattered and strewn across a violent coastal ocean
and you were a jutting rock, a point of reference in the chaotic waves of being
I clung to you, ignoring the jagged edges and crushing waves of influence
I bled onto you
and drank my own blood, so sick of gulping at the salty
nothing
and I let go
and allowed myself to bob underneath the cosmic waves of reality
making something called a "metaphor" out of symbols created by others
and the wounds in my hand sting with realistic confines of a normal life

the jug of water, jug which
usually filled with sweet lemonade
that protects me from the scrutiny of witnessed descent

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