Monday, July 9, 2012

My Eyes Fill With Red/Poetry/Angst Section

My Eyes Fill With Red

Why do my eyes fill up with red strain?
Why, dear, do they crackle?

Why do I seem silly to myself?

Perhaps I've forgotten,

To dash fluency against a rock,
to kill it-

to create in its waves never ending-
make granite from them.

Granite can be broken-

The art of poetry I'll scatter,
against the floor,
so in a million ways,
little balls of sparkling red,
ornaments break-
and a Christmas tree resembling in my poor mind,
what once these soulful words,
had meant-
but now they have from their brambles fell . . .
and swooped to mourning,
breaking upon impact.

Will I ever find for what I'm looking?

Can fluency and poetry,
mean anything to me?

True. True. They do glitter . . .

ornaments of red have roguish associations however-
and poetry breaks-
languages are granite,
thrown against the sorry wall!
How shall I shatter them all?
These words I want
to break like the pen I'm holding.

Break them . . .
break- them.

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