Also, hey, why not two posts today? Also, here's another prose poem, cut from my eyelids and bleached in my brain sauce (was that bad? sorry, just trying to sound like a Batman villain). Anywho, ho ho ho, here we go.
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I should be sleeping. The lamp is on. The cat claws the mattress and I yell at her because she has sick things inside her. The lament of time is that there is always too much and it costs nothing. The lament of the morning, one that has not yet held sleep, is that it’s a wonderful place. My hair is still clean even though I rolled around in puddles of drab mud, killing cars. You don’t even suggest we should go out for ice cream. You like to rent movies, buy them for cheap, and plug them into your head. Fall asleep, I am a cheap doll molded by somebody wonderful. I am glued to my own feet, my own steps, my own avenues and longing. Let my shoes kick off, smash against the hall, die in the pit of sandals. You say look in the mirror, wise up, don’t be so dopey. I look at the morning sun and hear it whisper. It repeats my name, truthfully, please believe.
1 comment:
Yes, prose poems are definitely where it's at.
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