Monday, 12 March 2012

An attempt to pass the time...

I've enjoyed the past few days of pleasant weather, and saw to find myself sufficiently drunk because of it; literally, not figuratively. Whilst I become slowly inundated  by work, I distract myself by listening to the birds sing outside and writing a few pieces, as my memory so very slowly begins to form it's complete recital of everything I've done. That's a 'reflection', the same as all performative acts (and thus, this included) are. And I realise that at some point I lost my pen at the same time as I began to lose my 'mind'.
That's a shame, about the pen.
This poem's title is the same as the book I never intend to write, they are reflections of one another, an ironic metaphor of sorts, that further, ironically, makes allusions to myself. And as I see things that aren't really there, but must be because I conceive of them and because, logically, idealism makes sense and exists- I piece together myself from parts that I, at one time or another, had chosen to give up, or possibly didn't. I can't know of autonomy. In hindsight I perceive that it's full of repetition, and repetition constitutes routine. Routine in the scourge of the soul.


The Orifice

My mouth fills with blood.
Blood, and the sickeningly
rich, phlegm like taste
of infection.
My tongue flashes against
the fleshy gum, that
erect,
craters the void
of the now absent
capsule like tooth
of wisdom-
the hermit
in the back of the lair.
The abscess of infection
had been comfortably housed awhile,
but no more.
And now the rich blood
flows free
and now
the stench with it

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