Third Poem from Japan
EvilToasterElf
Posts: 1,119
Filler
When a trapped butterfly
flaps its pinned wings
A woman finds the words
“I do” stuck in her throat
While the words, “do I love him?”
clamber around her brain
Was it love that filled
that dark chamber, or simply
spent time?
Mingling forces
Spent money
Spent cigarettes
Spent life
The same face fluttering
Around the vacant factory
Of memory
When an exposed nail
Travels through a rubber soul
And pierces the meaty flesh
Of a construction man’s foot
The pain registers as white light
At the doctor’s office
the white walls of a waiting room
remind him of a girl he met
two years before. He remembers
the way she held her drink,
and the way her eyes moved
around the room, slowly.
And why he never remembers her voice
because he never spoke to her
When a man looks into the sky,
in the middle of the afternoon
He sees only the color blue.
Impossibly raindrops begin to fall.
He suddenly thinks of proportions,
the human body is seventy percent water.
An atom, is over ninety-nine percent empty space.
An aging fisherman lays down on the deck,
And begins creating his own constellations,
The horny blonde, and the lonely bastard,
The high school diploma he burned
with the envelopes of unemployment checks,
the motorcycle he never rode
across country, across continent.
In the morning he pulls in his nets,
a tire bounces away, a license plate
clangs against the deck, and a soggy
rag doll, with red hair, sloshes to
the ground. He leaves them there,
filling as much empty space
as the stars filled the night sky,
on board the SS forgotten
with all the lovely tuna.
When a trapped butterfly
flaps its pinned wings
A woman finds the words
“I do” stuck in her throat
While the words, “do I love him?”
clamber around her brain
Was it love that filled
that dark chamber, or simply
spent time?
Mingling forces
Spent money
Spent cigarettes
Spent life
The same face fluttering
Around the vacant factory
Of memory
When an exposed nail
Travels through a rubber soul
And pierces the meaty flesh
Of a construction man’s foot
The pain registers as white light
At the doctor’s office
the white walls of a waiting room
remind him of a girl he met
two years before. He remembers
the way she held her drink,
and the way her eyes moved
around the room, slowly.
And why he never remembers her voice
because he never spoke to her
When a man looks into the sky,
in the middle of the afternoon
He sees only the color blue.
Impossibly raindrops begin to fall.
He suddenly thinks of proportions,
the human body is seventy percent water.
An atom, is over ninety-nine percent empty space.
An aging fisherman lays down on the deck,
And begins creating his own constellations,
The horny blonde, and the lonely bastard,
The high school diploma he burned
with the envelopes of unemployment checks,
the motorcycle he never rode
across country, across continent.
In the morning he pulls in his nets,
a tire bounces away, a license plate
clangs against the deck, and a soggy
rag doll, with red hair, sloshes to
the ground. He leaves them there,
filling as much empty space
as the stars filled the night sky,
on board the SS forgotten
with all the lovely tuna.
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Thanks
I'm still working on it, I wrote it in one sitting last night, It's actually a re-write of an old poem that didn't work very well, all I kept was the title and the last line
The stories are all supposed to reinforce, regret, isolation, and emptiness, and the soul is like an atom, mostly empty space, we are said to be born with a blank slate, so what do we fill it with?
Yes, I felt the regret and emptiness..."dust in the wind"...
I really liked the last line, actually.
And I won't make the same mistakes
(Because I know)
Because I know how much time that wastes
(And function)
Function is the key
can't have these on page 4 when i ain't read em yet