You have to remember about poetry.
You can't say that my soul has died away.
It sometimes escapes you and runs around you in circles, dashes out into the hallway, and screams its head off while you sit in front of, eyes always making contact, face contorted in appropriate facial responses. You must act tired, but not too tired, and not even too energetic, for your energy means you have not been working hard enough. There must be delicate violet circles shading the see-through skin underneath your rose-colored eyeballs. You might squint a bit, cock your head to the side, slowly nod, mouth a slow-motion clip of agreement, or shock, or wonder.
The dress is sloppy, but clean. You for one have just washed your only pair of jeans that fit after three months of consuming vending machines, but when you shift your position in the seat--your right bum cheek always falls asleep--you catch a faint whiff of dirty. Just-washed dirty. It might actually be the scent of your skin. A thousand showers and one hundred thousand steel-wool scrubbers could not remove the grime of stagnancy.
It seems your life is lived in a triangular sitting fashion; actually something reminiscent of Athapaskan classificatory verbs. You would be a grammatical oddity: an upright being that is described in terms of round container lying flat. You move from in front of a make-shift door, clobbered with texts and stray pen marks that stain your right hand when it embarks on the only movement possible in that position. You could transfer to the bed--the right side laden with scrap paper and highlighters and assignment sheets. You sleep next to this mound, wake up to it, kiss it and caress it, and think fondly of it in your dreams.
From Point A you make it somehow to Point B, where you sit in a crowded room ignoring voices. Sitting here you worry about Point C, curse the skies at forgotten periods and long-lost semi-colons, and wish you were at Point A (however it might be), possibly knocked out, or napping; that would be nice.
At Point C, in Point C, with Point C, out of Point C; all prepositions fit with this head. Here you make your way to underground caverns encasing beings living still. You make your way to the spot near the heater--you like to challenge your backpack to ignite, burst into orange glory. Maybe you'll catch fire too.
It sometimes escapes you and runs around you in circles, dashes out into the hallway, and screams its head off while you sit in front of, eyes always making contact, face contorted in appropriate facial responses. You must act tired, but not too tired, and not even too energetic, for your energy means you have not been working hard enough. There must be delicate violet circles shading the see-through skin underneath your rose-colored eyeballs. You might squint a bit, cock your head to the side, slowly nod, mouth a slow-motion clip of agreement, or shock, or wonder.
The dress is sloppy, but clean. You for one have just washed your only pair of jeans that fit after three months of consuming vending machines, but when you shift your position in the seat--your right bum cheek always falls asleep--you catch a faint whiff of dirty. Just-washed dirty. It might actually be the scent of your skin. A thousand showers and one hundred thousand steel-wool scrubbers could not remove the grime of stagnancy.
It seems your life is lived in a triangular sitting fashion; actually something reminiscent of Athapaskan classificatory verbs. You would be a grammatical oddity: an upright being that is described in terms of round container lying flat. You move from in front of a make-shift door, clobbered with texts and stray pen marks that stain your right hand when it embarks on the only movement possible in that position. You could transfer to the bed--the right side laden with scrap paper and highlighters and assignment sheets. You sleep next to this mound, wake up to it, kiss it and caress it, and think fondly of it in your dreams.
From Point A you make it somehow to Point B, where you sit in a crowded room ignoring voices. Sitting here you worry about Point C, curse the skies at forgotten periods and long-lost semi-colons, and wish you were at Point A (however it might be), possibly knocked out, or napping; that would be nice.
At Point C, in Point C, with Point C, out of Point C; all prepositions fit with this head. Here you make your way to underground caverns encasing beings living still. You make your way to the spot near the heater--you like to challenge your backpack to ignite, burst into orange glory. Maybe you'll catch fire too.
posted by eekbeat | 5:29 PM
1 Comments:
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