09-22-2017, 12:24 PM
A Poem About A Canal
She spiralled—almost shatterproof—
a victim, a stray country,
like limbs at war.
She tortured and corrupted
and turned my bicycle into a language
that spoke to me and said:
This is your idiot culture,
this shiny system,
this laugh riot.
These fractures and cracks and breaks
are your real bones.
This acrobat is your real flesh.
You're a railway
and, despite your inhibitions,
you have set yourself on fire
so that everyone can see
exactly what you are
and what you fail to be.
We listened,
ran off, hid, and spat
some garbled platitudes
on a dustbin lid.
She spiralled—almost shatterproof—
a victim, a stray country,
like limbs at war.
She tortured and corrupted
and turned my bicycle into a language
that spoke to me and said:
This is your idiot culture,
this shiny system,
this laugh riot.
These fractures and cracks and breaks
are your real bones.
This acrobat is your real flesh.
You're a railway
and, despite your inhibitions,
you have set yourself on fire
so that everyone can see
exactly what you are
and what you fail to be.
We listened,
ran off, hid, and spat
some garbled platitudes
on a dustbin lid.