Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Friday, June 7, 2013

Bitter Weeds


Foul mood. Irritable. Three days of redaction. And poetry sounds flat. Bitter weeds. Bile. Piss on a toilet seat at a roadside park, collecting germs. Tree branches rub across the vents on the roof. No moon overhead. Syllable counts resist meaning. An ache develops across my upper thigh. And I keep rearranging words within phrases, looking for a particular "sound" or "beat."

Which tricks the ear in a stronger sense of music?
—cruelty of April lingers in the blood, —or—
—The cruelty of April lingers in blood,

All rhythms in today's verse seems slightly off.

The cruelty of April lingers—

234 / —the cruelty of April lingers in blood, fingers, in exact motions across perimeters of this fallen house, without words—

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