Viewport width =
March 9, 2009 | by  | in Poetry |
Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

Reflections in the perpendicular moonlight

Life could be symmetry writhing
within the cardboard boxes
that trundle along the production line
inside the factory of sleep

or it could be thought
becoming a red curl on a black background

or the winded baby
who is born twice annually
once at each solstice
in a porcelain bathtub in Normandy
until it’s mother wins
the rights to an emotionless abortion.

Or life is a brick wall
splattered with neon red paint
beneath a flickering streetlight.

Life used to be the emptiness
amongst the crowds outside reality
whose bodies were left slumped
in office chairs or dumped
in steaming piles in town squares
or left slouching over tables in cheap cafes
or sliding naked and flabby
down the shimmering surface of stainless
steel that fills the angled space between strangers.

When I was clever life was the red dress
and black jacket combination, since then

I’ve mistaken life as
the intricate mechanics of simply being
constantly at work inside flower petals.

Life ought to be thriving deep down
below the bottom of the bottom of
the feeling of the memory of love

yet in the distance, life is the red balloon
at the centre of every black cloud,
holding it together, keeping it afloat.

Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

About the Author ()

Comments are closed.

Recent posts

  1. Cuttin’ it with with Miss June
  2. SWAT
  3. Ravished by the Living Embodiment of All Our University Woes
  4. New Zealand’s First Rainbow Crossing is Here (and Queer)
  5. Chloe Has a Yarn About Mental Health
  6. “Stick with Vic” Makes “Insulting” and “Upsetting” Comments
  7. Presidential Address
  8. Final Review
  9. Tears Fall, and Sea Levels Rise
  10. It’s Fall in my Heart

Editor's Pick

This Ain’t a Scene it’s a Goddamned Arm Wrestle

: Interior – Industrial Soviet Beerhall – Night It was late November and cold as hell when I stumbled into the Zhiguli Beer Hall. I was in Moscow, about to take the trans-Mongolian rail line to Beijing, and after finding someone in my hostel who could speak English, had decided