Tuesday 27 October 2015

Just a discord (of a poem that says it’s not a poem.)

I'm sorry kid but no poetry today. I'm cross legged in a room full of pictures depicting the deflation, the declination and deletion of a place that's derelict to me. Can't stand it. I'm sorry kid, but there ain't no poetry today. I'm a boulder, a pillar, in the way of a structure that wants to crash down above, pushes hard this way and that, shoving my back this is anger my friend. I'm seeing red. So there's no poetry today. You see, I'm not delicate with my words today. I don't feel gentle, I don't feel kind I don't want to tiptoe across puddles of water I want to break the ice. I want to scream so many things that would only be a symptom, not a description of everything that's screwed up. I've tried, I've tried. But I can't sing poetry because I've died. There's a lacking soul in here kid, been hibernating for too long under a smothering winter that reeks of sickness. “Dead, dead, dead,” The madness dances from across the room and that laughter that is so loud inside it's tearing my lungs it's messing my eyes. I'm seeing shadows hiding behind the doors I'm haunted I'm torn I'm wrecked I'm displaced I'm anger. And to resist that calling, that faithful, honest calling to break break break break break break break everything. To pick up the phone and say goodbye To walk out the door and imply forever. When I can't remember an entire summer When I can't consider a newborn spring When everything that makes sense disintegrates and the only thing the only thing I hear is “destroy.” There's no poetry kid, there never will be. Poetry is the assumption of a picture, it's lace it's a window, an image a portrait or a landscape what is this? That's simply the point. It is. It says. It does.
Everyone gets a little angry.
but I have to mute this. This kind of recklessness doesn't make for good art. This kind of hopelessness doesn't make for a good heart. I'm resting. The dragon sleeps. Inside there's a monster. But it's name is not “inevitable.”