Viewport width =
July 24, 2017 | by  | in Poetry |
Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

the author on their book

i broke

my question to you

down over the back of my tongue

and couldn’t quite spit its lifeless body

out of the newly minted mausoleum of my mouth

it drips through the gaps between my plaque infested teeth

gelatine strings hanging from these small holes i watch you fluster

from the fear that what I have asked you is a flustering thing to ask someone

 

what is your book about?

you jam a thought into the pages

desperate to open up

 

a definition that captures what is surely more than any dust jacket summary

the air between our two bodies generates nerves that waver

wires through your body upright behind a table

dancing a repeating act of resistance to a stop

 

you tell me it’s about people

and someone dies like everything

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

About the Author ()

Comments are closed.

Recent posts

  1. Your silent cries left unheard
  2. How it Works: On the Climate Change Response (Zero Carbon) Amendment Bill
  3. Is Vic Books Missing Out on the Living Wage Campaign?
  4. Jesus Christ Super-Nah, Saviour’s New Political Party May Need Miracle
  5. Issue 12 – Friendship
  6. SWAT: Friendship Column
  7. Inevitable Entanglement
  8. HOROSCOPE WEEK OF JUNE 3: FRIENDSHIP
  9. Liquid Knowledge: On Israel and Palestine
  10. An Ode to the Aunties

Editor's Pick

Burnt Honey

: First tutorial of the year. When I open the door, I underestimate my strength, thinking it to be all used up in my journey here. It swings open violently and I trip into the room where awkward gazes greet me. Frozen, my legs are lead and I’m stuck on display for too long. My ov