'Checkmate.'

-

I’m sick of not knowing. 
A life bereft of surprises,

In that I revel with tremor.

The calendar shudders at any touch.

November is all but over.

For his own life he fears.


Confident the day stauches a rivulet of possibilities,

I want to shove the knife

And carve out of me a fountain of roses.

To see the landscape, whatever is running under this hide.

I want sobering cuts. 
They give me a tease.
I want peeled truth. 
They dismiss with a tickle.


Never will I thrill at anything 
in a baby-proofed cell.
A baby’s life is locked in itself.
A baby’s pain gives motive for wonder
As if pain is a novelty.


The unwrapping grows wearisome.
Doubts begin to envelop me  
That the wrap is the gift.

If I wreathe a garland about my neck,

That, at last, might stir a ripple in me.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

III

-
Idea, stronger than a seed- Nothing to do about it- Discarded, chafes back By the sleight of a dandelion;  Buried, shades its grave Perverting thousand eyes  To the cool play.  Mind, perverser than a wobbly tray- Nothing to do with it- A tug makes it tumble; And a lift sends it flying! 
Read more

a cut of the day - iv

-
Only the number of distractions caps that of my whims. I’ve sadly come to realise that I lose heart easily and will never stick at nothing. Aborted projects, partial writings, emerging sketches lie somewhere, plaintively, in some forlorn hopes of coming into use some day, until they pulp and smear, atomise and disappear into thin air. I command standards mightily higher than I command mastery, not least being that I enter upon matters I refuse to enter into—the gore and whiteness, the miniatures and traps of a body when anatomised, is what repels me from a direct observation. I live vicariously, in fancy and feelings, batering youth for flings, splurging over bread just for the warm smell. There's meaning in largess, and so much more of it in not seeking it.
Read more

a cut of the day - i

-
I  spend too much time sleeping, time that would not have elsewhere to be placed than in devising meaningless, pregnant thoughts, deep like alluvion, heavy like manacles. Eyes shut, the mind is at peace, hopefully, a peace that is hard-fought, treasured up, too precious to be stirred at, too friable for an excited dream to break. To achieve a state of somnolence when the mind is active and phosphorescent takes more pains than fighting droopy eyelids. The latter is merely a physical tussle; the former a travail on the mind. Now I am sitting behind the glum, fake wood table, boring into the short pass way to the flimsy door that jolts and moans whenever someone passes by from the other side; though every switch is flipped up, the lighting in the room is meager and I can barely see one scintilla boucing from any reflective surface. I am thinking, shallow, happy thoughts—in the present day, there seem less and less of them—those pert, ebullient scums on the surface of a still, composed...
Read more