MyMemoirs
I can't explain anything....
...even to myself.
This is something I can't articulate in prose, maybe I can't even place my finger on what it's about...
Mymemoirs
The dank salt of stale heat curls from
the window clammed. The sweltering metropolis
is kept out. The vipers on the windshield
are sedate. There are many of me:
a sparkling frisky or nimble girl in a pleated skirt,
a South-Asian foreign student, and later,
a wheatish nymph stripped to her underwear.
Recalling makes a reluctant ramble
through the nostalgic mindscape- solitary,
but resembling in it’s many similarities
of streets, narrow lanes with crammed, chaste fiber-where I shrivel
with the reaper’s skepticism and sour doubt.
Repeatedly I feel often
the Distraction is invading, the Distraction is invading Mymemoirs.
His able hands clasp my vapory will,
their lines conceal the mottle of loneliness,
I am a wild-weed tumbling in a tide of air,
my resolve brittle as bird bones,
I who always saw a contained clout in her mirror-self
combusting red heat crackle-crack
lighting up the sun-smeared yolk sky,
where all feathery constrains take wings.
The admittance drains him washed blank
like a sunken stream.
And was the silent river thick with content,
that no ripples spiraled into its gut,
were its motionless currents brackish as the dead sea
where no one was allowed to drown
in it’s stagnant tide, what would he say?
The winter ocean is drab-soot, the sludge dark waves cringe
with the dampened air flaccid as his morale,
like a fringe of deposited dirty foam.
Overcast reason! Clouded like my words
that rise as metal fog from exhaling ducts,
smogmist and haze-
yes, they are nothing concrete.
He is emanating in Mymemoirs.
He must draw dewdrops from the grey mist
within his lungs to breathe my tears,
to taste my words or decipher doubtfully.
He will barge in through the rattling iron
of my steel space
where I will let him seep in like spirited wind,
like a circling current of air
then holding my syllables by their scanty veins
inhale all reason from my say
now bare as a clearing or loneliness.
...even to myself.
This is something I can't articulate in prose, maybe I can't even place my finger on what it's about...
Mymemoirs
The dank salt of stale heat curls from
the window clammed. The sweltering metropolis
is kept out. The vipers on the windshield
are sedate. There are many of me:
a sparkling frisky or nimble girl in a pleated skirt,
a South-Asian foreign student, and later,
a wheatish nymph stripped to her underwear.
Recalling makes a reluctant ramble
through the nostalgic mindscape- solitary,
but resembling in it’s many similarities
of streets, narrow lanes with crammed, chaste fiber-where I shrivel
with the reaper’s skepticism and sour doubt.
Repeatedly I feel often
the Distraction is invading, the Distraction is invading Mymemoirs.
His able hands clasp my vapory will,
their lines conceal the mottle of loneliness,
I am a wild-weed tumbling in a tide of air,
my resolve brittle as bird bones,
I who always saw a contained clout in her mirror-self
combusting red heat crackle-crack
lighting up the sun-smeared yolk sky,
where all feathery constrains take wings.
The admittance drains him washed blank
like a sunken stream.
And was the silent river thick with content,
that no ripples spiraled into its gut,
were its motionless currents brackish as the dead sea
where no one was allowed to drown
in it’s stagnant tide, what would he say?
The winter ocean is drab-soot, the sludge dark waves cringe
with the dampened air flaccid as his morale,
like a fringe of deposited dirty foam.
Overcast reason! Clouded like my words
that rise as metal fog from exhaling ducts,
smogmist and haze-
yes, they are nothing concrete.
He is emanating in Mymemoirs.
He must draw dewdrops from the grey mist
within his lungs to breathe my tears,
to taste my words or decipher doubtfully.
He will barge in through the rattling iron
of my steel space
where I will let him seep in like spirited wind,
like a circling current of air
then holding my syllables by their scanty veins
inhale all reason from my say
now bare as a clearing or loneliness.
