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handtwistboltecho
down stairways you've only seen over your shoulder
this was coming,
[cue my last thought]
this came
--
the night is for the missed smells and burnt thoughts
for hands held and tired exalts,
the night is for us, not me.
I'll be there in a minute.
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I very much like the title and the last three lines. Missed smells and burnt thoughts especially make me think of an attempt of building a domestic life together gone wrong.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
I've built a whole style of writing out of the world of lonesome nights laying down thick, or widening out in spooky, breathless space around me.
That's what the worst part reminds me of.
--
The ending has the desperate rhyme. That little hop at the end. The hopeful rhyme of despair, I'd call it.
The morning is sometimes worse, or sometimes better. Depending on details and conditions I've had to learn too much about.
It's good to see things being molded into a poem, out of what seems pointless at the time.
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kudos for responding
i kept fixing this one to no avail
I'll be there in a minute.
This poem isn't bad.
Sorry about the "Freudian slip"; I meant first part, not worst part.
The first part can be gotten used to after reading it a few times. I can see it being molded over and over again.
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I changed it by hacking off words, though I forgot to save the original.
I'll be there in a minute.
You shouldn't forget to save the first version. It was pretty good.
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Much stronger version
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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(03-17-2013, 08:48 AM)rowens Wrote: You shouldn't forget to save the first version. It was pretty good.
I won't forget next time.
I'll be there in a minute.
You're bound to have it saved somewhere?
The twist of the hand? The fly? Come on...
That's why I like paper.
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(03-17-2013, 09:01 AM)rowens Wrote: You're bound to have it saved somewhere?
The twist of the hand? The fly? Come on...
That's why I like paper.
Nope.
Shit. I found the original on my blog:
hand twists, bolt echos
fly down stairways you’ve seen smiling over your shoulder
through perfect circular mud puddles
this was coming,
night (cue my last thought)
this came (it’s too early to be alone)—
—
the night is for the missed smells and burnt thoughts
for hands held and tired exalts,
the night is for us, not me.
I'll be there in a minute.
I found it too. A few minutes ago while I was looking at that naked broad in the bath tub again.
Posts: 204
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You really like her don't you?
I'll be there in a minute.
