his goal in life was to be an echo (radiotower) wrote in snuffboxpoetics,
his goal in life was to be an echo
radiotower
snuffboxpoetics

  • Music:

crossposted to radiotower

recreation of the first ice age

i.

suddenly
after i open the door to let you out,
the locust-ridden night saws
inside.

(& yes, the dark IS a locust,
it swarms,
and claws, and razes light to the ground
it should slip,
and slide, and ooze like oil,
slowly,
like a hand in the middle of
the night, searching blindly
over a landscape of porcelain sheets,

and the only oozing
is the pained accordion-sighs of evening
as the day's lifeblood stains
the walls of the sky - )

the door slams
and the horizon
wobbles.


ii.

the architecture of my love
is not enough to stabilize your
fractured basement of a heart,
cold & clammy,
a place
no one wants to be in
especially not in the middle of the night
when voices echo -

i'll wrap you up in a
blueprint,
let your breath stain
unbuilt houses
& their open doors,
the same way you invade
my mouth.

our hands begin to
agitate the air,
like crickets,
soaked in summer nights,
struggling to swim
in the suddenly syrupthick air


iii.

someday everything will freeze
and our silences will be
memorialized,
categorized by our facial expressions -
the age of Love,
the age of Indifference,
the age of Hatred,
as the stark sun
thaws us slowly -

like insects in amber.


[ed. note: this was actually one poem about locusts & architecture and i thought i was too lazy to take them apart, but then i wasn't anymore.  i still think most of it sucks, but it's better than it was.    i did get rid of a stanza that said:

why would i shoot rifles in your direction
if you didn't give me a target to shoot at?
(you bring the sunlight,
i'll bring the guilt)

&

but we don't care
what we say anymore
it's a sleight-of-hand
that tucks us neatly
behind the scene,

&

it's a subtle vanishing of words
that always leads to
mute hearts &
noisy hands  ---- [mute hands & noisy hearts?  works either way.]

because it was too lyric-y. 

sometimes you forget that poetry isn't about the finished product, but more about the process.  someone once told me: "the part you love the most about your poem is the part that usually doesn't fit, or has to go."  and man, did i love that "rifles" bit.  oh well.  i'll use it later.

the end.]
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic
  • 4 comments