tonight i must be a poet.
i must squeeeze out
images,
suckle the newborn page
from the generous breast
that is my soul.
images are difficult;
they come to me
as naturally as
the gazelle
eating
the lion.
i must squeeeze out
images,
suckle the newborn page
from the generous breast
that is my soul.
images are difficult;
they come to me
as naturally as
the gazelle
eating
the lion.
tonight i must be a poet.
i must bleeed out
images,
slit and drain with golden nib
the tender wrists
that are my soul.
images are dangerous;
they come to me
as peacefully as
the man
in the dark
with the knife.
i must bleeed out
images,
slit and drain with golden nib
the tender wrists
that are my soul.
images are dangerous;
they come to me
as peacefully as
the man
in the dark
with the knife.
but endings are the hardest.
they come to me
like death.
they come to me
like death.
this is another old piece that hasn’t aged particularly well in my mind, but one that i’m still mostly comfortable hanging on to. the gimmick of the words elongated by the triple ‘e’s shows an embarrassing immaturity and lack of restraint. the images make no sense together. but it was well received by my peers at the time, for whatever reason, and i think it probably marks the start of a few recurring themes for me&hellips; it’s not confessional per se, but it is approaching that more than my previous work had. it’s also one of my first metapoems, a theme that continues to play out at times when writing occupies my mind more than most things, and therefore starts to also occupy my writing more than&hellips; well, more than makes sense. it’s also one of my earlier pieces to really play with the title instead of just slapping something on.