dimanche 25 avril 2010

déprime sans fin

the harder i try
the worse it gets

my brain is empty
of all significance

i sleep like the cat
by hours

i spill into the
atmosphere vacuous

i have nothing to
say again today

why bother
why bother

they're mowing the
lawn across the street

the grass will do
push-ups by midday

it will be sunday
before we know it

the phone will
be silent

i'll nap through
the afternoon, then

when evening comes
i'll watch a film

i always fall asleep
before it ends

the same

leading to this
déprime sans fin

leading to the
absence of poetry

2 commentaires:

Brenda a dit…

a poem as slender as a cat

sliding through

the days

there is a sadness here, an uninterrupted continuum, and the cat is not contented

rather the poet
reaches through the veils of ordinary life, ordinary life which is well ordinary, the life we all live, our ordinary lives, sleeping, waking, watching, the neighbours all doing the same things day after day to ask the meaning of poetry
in this life
of its absence

being a cat for a poem is lovely, but any longer, and maybe not, huh

I like the way you've composed this poem, and I do hope the sense of boredom in it is only a poetic pose and not any more than that


Moineau En France a dit…

thank you, sister. i'm sitting here tonight at midnight in outrageous pain and yet i am not outraged, just the same, as always stunned that i can keep doing this. i'd write a poem but it would sound just like this one. i've written this poem in so many ways, maybe that's what we do, keep reworking the tired themes of our lives until we transcend them. maybe tomorrow, my love, maybe tomorrow... a burst of soul-wisdom, an atom bomb of hope. xooxoxoxo