the day my shit got
all fouled up
i said, shit or get off
and got off 'cause
you can't straighten
out your shit when
your gut is removed
from your head
a bell went off
and i thought it was
time to bake a loaf
time for the risin'
to be riz so it seemed
but what seems is
not what i bought
or its origin
the pillbox was
hid behind a
bright coffee cup
the bell went off
and i thought
best not to forget
what? the bell
that goes off 3 X
per 24 hours
but today my
shit is all twisted
and the bell just
signifies any bell
and the pills still
sit in their stall
and i'm wonderin'
what the hell?
why is my shit
all fisted in my gut
why's the sound
of a whistle in my
ears and the pangs
of despair and the
fangs of pain
and the end of days
is the end of fear
shit, can't get worse
than this, can only
get better, like
"oh shit, i forgot
the fucking meds
again" and set the
little bell that
rules my world
7 commentaires:
Forgetting the pills...forgetting...yes, the story of cfids.
In your note you talked about subscibing. Take a minute to go to my blog and scroll all the way down to the very bottom of the links. I've just begun using bloggers new tool to add not just a static link, but blogs you follow. You add them in via your dashboard and the URL. Each time that blogger posts, the latest post shows under the blog name. For people who don't have blog, subscriptions are great. I prefer this way so I don't 'lose' things in my email.
Pris
ty, pris. i will check it out. xoxox
For me this is an angry, yet humorous, poem of a speaker who is a survivor, who must deal with a difficult ritual loop in her lfe that involves constant maintenance. There is anger toward the condition that causes the need for the pill taking, then a sort of being fed up with the process of the ritual itself, but the entire spare tone of the poem, and the way it delights in its own scatalogical references, crafts a light, deft tone of self-effacement and acceptance of an unbearable situation. In other words, this strongly worded lyric is truly a poem of resilience, and self-examination; a sort of inventory-taking as it were. It reminded me of the self-effacing humor in the great memoir prose poem by the French editor of Elle who was paralyzed, The Diving Bell And The Butterfly.
Admirable work with a steady wit always behind it. Since I am accustomed to streams of obscenity in the heights of French literature (Bataille, Genet, Celine, Houellebecq, to mention only a few) I was not put off by the graphic references, but rather, intrigued by them. I think you made great use of the word merde in all its connotations.
A triumph of language over existential situation.
Very funny. Sometimes I think a bell, or something similar, externally or internally, controls our lives.
bravo, great poem. I think the ending really resonates.
Well, Laura...having been in a similar place for a long while after a serious injury in the 90s, I can really relate...took me 10 years to recover...I so empathize.
man, sounds like a bummer poem to me, if it's not tongue in cheek--but tres evocative.
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