Gnawing gnats

-

My couplets are crude.

My eyes bleared,

with strain and sigh.


Long night ground colors.

Darker than cased blood,

Light as fish eggs.


I wonder where can be found

some driftwood 

waving a dying hand.

Maybe at my bedside?


Clean cut over slogging saw,

Death better than doubt.

A grand ending gives everything

A punch can.













Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Just a dot

-
I gazed at the shopping assistant over the counter who was on the phone asking her colleague a simple question about the inventory. Then she truncated the call and haltingly hammered some clunky, jutting buttons on the landline and thus whack-a-moled another number. This time she plonked the receiver on the counter as to liberate her hands for something distracting and insignificant, which gave her an air of busyness. She didn’t ask who was answering when the call went through. She just sent shivers down the cable lines asking the same booming question, like words but a fresh tonal presentation. The voice from the other end was immediately reassembled from the electrical current, muffled, so she cut it short in a fit of impatience and parroted the same question with no creative alterations this time, apparently not interested in any illumination from the other part. And I thought to myself: This woman is just a dot.
Read more

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