6.10.2011 • elusive

In the mornings the world is fresh and raw. I often awake into a day whose cares I had in my sleep forgot; I never remember my dreams, almost.

Looking back to October last, early modern English inversions tongue-in-cheek, to my first poem in a long time. The conditions under which it was written, um, elude me.

•

elusive

My capacity for poetry

e​‏‪‪ ​‏‪‪ l​‏‪‪ udes me.

The times we live in,

strewn in

forlorn values

and across the old

marble staircase of my dreams

of my dreams

such are the times we live in

commas lost in the threadbare livery of time

(and punctuation is the vehicle of articulate thought)

drowning in a spoonful

a spoonful

a spoon full of water

of water and salt

sucking it up like a sponge

like a sponge

I should write a song

The other day I mistook

an eye for an eye

(is punctuation the vehicle of articulate thought)

an eye for a mouth

I mean

oh the times we live in

I mistook my life

for the fancy of a god

long-lost in the twisting

staircase of my dreams

a flight of long stares

and inarticulate sighs

sucking it all up

like a sponge

I wanna write a song

but the words stick

to the sides of my throat

left right fore and aft

port and starboard

articulate little fuckers

with mouths for eyes

crying LOUDER LOUDER

in their mute voices

and I just want to cry

I wanna write a songs