Obscenities
#1
Obscenities



Past two nights I dreamed of hell.
Right now I'm in limbo.
Everything is pleasant enough but
a feeling nags that I can't work away,
can't talk away, can't play away.

If before I did not know who I was,
now I do not know where I am.
Past two nights I dreamed of hell,
only hell is kind.
Hell is God's love set ablaze.
This place is cold.

I thought I liked the cold but
it is a lie like an open window
to a man stuck at the top floor
of a burning tower.

This is grief for a metaphor,
I think, dodging the question.
This is grief for a girl.
What else could it be?

It's all a matter of perspective.
The world was ending a year, a decade, a century ago.
Do you remember the names of your playmates when you were two?
The same thing goes when you pass twelve or twenty.

You can't work. You feel and act as if you've been traumatized by college.
Every professor seems to look at you with an evil eye. You can't finish.
How many years did you waste? What are you going to do with yourself now?
Your sister moves overseas in search of better prospects, and she has her degree.

A cartoon. A webcomic. An internet forum.
A grand aunt. An uncle. Another uncle.
You think you knew these artists
more than you knew your own family.

Where do you come from? There is noise, and there are words.
What are you? Where there is noise, I must be silent.
Where are you going? For chattering teeth can make only noise.
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#2
big hug  You must have got the word early.

It may be true that Hell is other people, but
so is their absence.  And Hell's not
the only thing that other people are.
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
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#3
It started to fall away with the longer lines, but it was breaking apart the whole time, and adds to the effect. That desperate feeling, like when an actor breaks character on stage and just starts talking.
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#4
There is quite a lot going on in this poem. I agree with the analysis that Fields gave. The sense that the poem is continually breaking apart adds to hidden meaning of the poem. That desperation, and even desparate measures are merely a containable, decipherable and even predictable measure of loss and separation. The writing is solid, competent, certain. But is also a chapter or an entry in a journey of poetry, which is by necessity and by definition a study of loss, anguish, suffering, ennui and separation.
plutocratic polyphonous pandering 
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