in the mirrors of distant women
suddenly I find myself fragmented
in the mirrors of distant women
i see myself washed up rippled
on waves of wordlessness
i run around picking up the shards
it's a strange time this
neither rush of day
nor squeeze of night
neither song nor madness
frantically i rebuild the pieces
but who is this
tongue, eyes, nipple
all in the wrong places,
colours, taste, paper, keys -
all wrong. the clock
is ticking, my soul
is growing fat. quickly
i ripple myself up again
in the cracked mirrors
of distant women
in the mirrors of distant women
i see myself washed up rippled
on waves of wordlessness
i run around picking up the shards
it's a strange time this
neither rush of day
nor squeeze of night
neither song nor madness
frantically i rebuild the pieces
but who is this
tongue, eyes, nipple
all in the wrong places,
colours, taste, paper, keys -
all wrong. the clock
is ticking, my soul
is growing fat. quickly
i ripple myself up again
in the cracked mirrors
of distant women
Labels: poetry
Selected by khuto |
13:56 |
4 Comments:
Something about your poem haunted me and brought me back to this page thrice today...
- The Devil's Surrogate
The last three lines are graphic. :)
you, of many women
what makes you think
you will ever be whole again?
you, of a fat soul
did you ever have one to begin with ?
you, picker of fragmented mirror shards
have you really known mad nights of black song ever ?
refelected in the mirrors of your distant women ?
you of many fragments,
have you ever been whole ?
ever ?
Your poem reminded me of a Picasso painting! Beautiful and provoking, it jolts you!
Its a 'cubist' poem, maudlin perspectives rearranged!
Exquisite.
Post a Comment
<< Front Page