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So I finished that poem

Bob-y?

 

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An arrow from the gods! Did I greet it?

(Crime and Punishment mash-up)

An arrow from the gods! Did I greet it?
Pinned by my frontal lobe to the wall
a man beyond the limit of his endurance
empty of coherent replies

my heart is a weasel in its burrow home
escaping some larger carnivore, I feel her
in my sinews, her words ride my spinal cord
like a chill, in my semi-delirium.

My soul is a clockwork animation
I feel no more than psychology.
At another time, I was a prophet
I have ideas enough to draw a crowd.

Meek and mournful, now I sit
by the poker machines, preaching restraint
they kicked me out like an old drunk
If she were here they’d never dream it.

I have her photograph in my breast pocket
I wear it to warm myself to the world
I’m used to carrying on.
Beware gods! I’ve a warrior for ya!

Why should I stay any longer?
Why should I deprive the ground
of my majestic tranquillity?
Why should I spare the worms my charm?

Show me the tip of your finger
I will tell you the fate of your family
fate is an arduous business
I know only what is possible.

Life is full of absurd suppositions
I am one man. I can never be more.
An arrow from the gods! Did I greet it?
In some past life, did I curse a man?

What damage did I cause to have the
gods take my wife early?
leaving me at my knees.
I have no time for inexorable judgement.

I have only cold despair.
I stand at the cliff as it crumbles
I sit on the rocks as the tide tantrums
I am a man of choice. I am no god’s toy.

Text Thursday: Newspaper Blackouts and giving up.

It’s a rough draft of a day.

Since semester ended I feel like my brain has just given up. Which I expected to some extent. But (in true ‘The Oatmeal‘ style) lately it’s just being an arsehole.

Brain: Oh you wanna spell that?

Me: Yes please, I need to put this word is some public place where it is likely that someone will judge my grasp of the English language based on this sentence.

Brain: Ha! No. No words for you.

Me: Oh come on, I use ‘definitely’ all the time!

Brain: No. No words for you. This week you can spell onomatopoeia, Macedonian,  and dysfunction but ‘fruit’, ‘definitely’ and the correct use of ‘stationery’ is out of the question.

Me: You’re ruining me.

Brain: Just for that, I’m taking your maths skills too.

Me: But I barely had any to begin with!

Brain: Let’s see how well you work without the ability to count.

Me: Fuck you.

Brain: Oh, and you’re afraid the cat is sick today.

Me: What?!

Brain: Yep, the cat’s going die and you’ve left the stove and the iron on. Your house is going to burn down. You’re fucked.

So I was going to word today. I was going to write and edit and have all the literary wordy-words reclining on the screen, being fed grapes from a vine and lightly caressing your eyeballs with a stanza or two. But apparently that’s not happening today, or this week. So instead I just tried to make words my friend, because I’m stubborn like that.

I don't even know.
I don’t even know.
Newspaper Blackout Poem (a la Austin Kleon). You can create your own and submit them here.
Newspaper Blackout Poem (à la Austin Kleon). You can create your own and submit them here. Even my pen doesn’t want to play today.

 Maybe a creaky little old draft

The house of the Nekorb,

made of human bones

has one-way windows

and bloodwood doors.

 

The house of the Nekorb,

rented by shadows,

has holes in the roof

and a couch made of stones.

 

There are no mirrors

no silverware, no mantles

no beds, no stairs,

no toilets or phones.

 

But the walls are lined with portraits,

there’s photographs in the hall,

the fridge is always full

and the heat is always on.

And the house itself is happy

and the ghouls don’t like to moan

the bats clean up their guano

and make my ribs their home.