Looking out to the evening insect rain
I feel a pattern forming.
The torture of my thought:
Binge thinking, one way to describe it.
Images and phrases keep on gnawing
Away, like rats, uncertainty.
Really monsters made from
My neurons, popping clear like bubble wrap.
A lot of it is everyday thoughts
Conversations I keep as
Forensic evidence:
Verbal mugshots in sepia wash.
In between the swirling meanings
There’s probably truth, the real version that’s
The hardest to see, and the hardest to
Really understand.
I defeat myself daily, hour by hour,
A habit I should have grown out of.
But up here—you must understand—
There are no rules, just self-made monsters.
Made from memories
I have lying around.
2 comments:
You know what mister currie - I really like this one, and its not because I'm a poet, or I think poetry is the greatest medium, but there is something about the process of writing poetry that takes every word to the bone. Images have to be so damn sharp. I wonder what would happen if you filled in the gaps of this poem as it is now...Get to the truth of it somehow - by writing exactly what those lines are hinting at... I'm not sure - just a thought. But there are some beautiful images here.
BEAUTIFUL. This is the single best poem I've ever read that describes the writing process and the thought process of a poet. Verbal Sepia mugshots. That's what my head is full of. Thank you for naming them, finally.
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