poetry, questioning the writing porcess, processing information |
Beet Hope (Or “My Problems with Writing So Far”) Damp purple scar Severed from the weep Unrealistic and far Love to live each day as though dead Sleep state clouds With narcotic sugar Darkness packing around skull Pat the earth around many ventricles And onto journeying To lands far below Wait Hope sits upon my seed Pressing, warmly, blindfolded strumming her dual harp Urges us toward the mundane and dirty Mud feeding aspirations for wider skies Teachers reveal paintings from the Tate He reads the writing and wonders, “Will she ever find her way? She can’t spell you know And fails at expressing Enough and the little she does is too much” Hiding Hope pushed above further Escape the toiling farmer “I love the way we speak of buried writers before us” “He slid down the barrister naked” “He was abused at school” “They were orphans” “She had a child at forty” What will they speak of me? Underground I will not make the anthology. Or rather on a virus infested laptop My words on the eroding yellow paper Unlike Margaret’s, no one will type them out later. Writing is for death Beets are for eating Above ground there will be no use for criticism Only for consumption, vitamins and a cleansing shit. The Icarus (Going to Russia after a long rest here after many journeys) Stir the pot Coated with wax Honeyed up in dew Spirals of light Melting outward Planes let heat escape Rings make a bed So I can sleep Begin to shake Sweat and chills Wings unfurl outward Twitch from fear Too much of the same sweet ferments to a sticky forgetfulness Waking to remember with red eyes Planes make me melt and drip And die sober at least Above lofty onions and the fallen beets I Drip onto beauty And crashland where The Icarus live. |