I monitor the white horizon as it leaves me behind
Constantly. Nauseating the slats of the blind.
The mucus over my sight clears and I stir fast to the memory
Of dull but kindly needles, bigger on the inside.
There is a sign by the curb, I would’ve liked
To read it. It is all just behind the window. Perhaps it is
Only because there is glass, between the expanse of concrete,
And I, that I can exist. Outside is total.
A flatline, it deafens. Inversed, I am open, an infant planet.
A shallow breath scatters constellations. Gormless.
Now, I could go into the heart of a poppy. Wet grass, that itch,
And four reclosing velvet walls – but the blameful scarlet.
I observe myself from above. Tender, boring. Early.
Clothes drip off me like wet paint.
There is static rolling past my eyes, end credits.
But something palpitates. I struggle to speak.
It is a bitter winter, this one. I face the door.
Note: poem written relatively recently, as of yet untitled.
This is a strong piece - Your giving the reader a glimpse and putting them in your shoes to take in what you've seen. I wouldn't use'I' so much. You can start with it but try and get the words without it. Objects can be used i.e 'the mucus over my sights clears stirring fast to memory of...'
ReplyDeleteor 'from above, you see me - tender, boring, early' (a standout line).
im not entirely happy with anything ive ever written, which is normal, but we appear to be on the same wavelength as youve picked out the exact same complaint about this poem that i have...im in total agreement and i haaaate that about this poem. really good suggestion for that 'standout line' though, thanks, genuinely helpful...but i think its healthy to reach a stage with a piece of writing where you decide that to go on would be to kill it, to accept its flaws, move on and write it better next time.
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