Monday, November 18, 2013

The Broken Thing (A Poem)

135
That last summer
Was a dissection,
Razor-skinned and marsh murky,
We dumped our old hurts
Into a silky-gripped bottle
Of cheap whiskey
And carved the indenture
Of ourselves into one another.

We carried a union
Of painful events
Into lanky-chaired cafes,
Strong as the blackest bean
Or the hardest words of Ginsberg,
And across the rain puddles
Of an isolated campus,
The art gallery a mouthful
Of inspiration that neither one
Of us could fully swallow.

The, befuddled of loss
We could not name, we raced
The nervous fingers of each other
Into empty move theatres,
Hoping the stagnant
After-breath of dead stars
Could breathe something substantial
Into the back-roads
Of our writers-block brains

But nothing we did could change
The airless, invisible thing
That hung between us
Like a lightless chandelier,
It’s hardwiring faulty,
Something had gone wrong,
And not knowing what,
We simple tossed it,
One less wager for the moving van,
The wheels of my suitcase
Playing connect-the-dots
With summer ants and bird droppings.

Written from a prompt at Sunday Whirl.

4 comments:

  1. I like the image of those last three lines. I could see a suitcase being wheeled right along as it makes its way to a new home.

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  2. Really enjoyable read. Especially liked "The art gallery a mouthful
    Of inspiration that neither one Of us could fully swallow." - I've been to those shows.

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  3. This is so good and clearly you don't have a writers block brain! A piece of writing so full of strong images that etch themselves on the readers mind.

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  4. Writers block, this? No way!!

    Here is my Sunday Swirl post: bridging the past with the future

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