dimanche 22 août 2010

dysfunction poétique

day breaks and i'm still up
i sip the too white coffee and nod
in the dawning i attempt to write a poem
i must work i desperately tell myself
i must try to put it all down to words
in case i'm gone by nightfall
but nothing comes of my spinning wheels
they say nothing comes from nothing
and they do seem to be right
as i mute the tele and light another butt
think about all the stories i have outlived
yet comes no description no color no passion
no crisis no denouement no brave ending

i give up quickly and succomb
i search the channel guide for another film
but realize that at last i've seen them all
there's nothing new under the moon
and then i hear the rain begin to fall
hard against my windows and doors
softening the dirt under my reddest roses
the winter daphne lays wrapped in morning glory
and i can smell that fresh earth through
the open door that stays perpetually open
like an open invitation to the world
yet goes unnoticed as i'm a voluntary guest
the primadonna in this nuthouse
filthy and cluttered from years of illness

i light another cigarette and sigh
and type a few more bandied-up words
pretend that a poem has come to form
then read it several times over
make the necessary corrections
then publish it like manna from heaven
with every trial the desire is stoked
the way the clouds just opened on the earth
there's alliteration and near rhyme
because i was brought up on nonsense
i'm egging and hamming myself up
to life to death to transcendence
i'm writing the comic strip of poetics
a façade to carry me through another day
for without that charade what's left of me

do i think i'm kidding myself
or my audience if and when they come
looking for material to assuage their pain
uplift their souls or confess their sins
am i writing the rough draft of consciousness
something to hang on to like a thread
a dirge for the half-living and dispossessed
the invisible ones stretched out on couches
dipping salty crackers into peanut butter
mentally keeping up the plunging blood
yes we're all hanging on a twiglet
cluttered with angst and self-pity
beyond formation in the nothingness
the sad poetry of illness

i'll be satisfied with this poem in the end
i'll lay back down and begin to sleep
i may weep in my dreams when they taunt me
but i'll wake up knowing it was only a dream

2 commentaires:

Pisces Iscariot a dit…

"when they come
looking for material to assuage their pain
uplift their souls or confess their sins"
or come just to see how you're doing :]
Writing poems about writing poems... how far does the rabbit (whole) go?

Moineau En France a dit…

far, very far, my main man! :>>))

check out my newest (oldest) from 1981, pisces... think you'll like it! visit you too very soon... xoxoxooxox