26 November 2013

Paint

Brittle boneyard of my soul.

Bleached and quiet.

Full of vacated moments.

I alone have time to examine
our
bruises.
Yesterdays clouts painted on my arm
forced into now with a touch.
Time-travel violence.

I write to keep the fear outside.
My pen locks the door,
the paper
hides the key.
I sing the way I hurt inside.
Bruises of dark cursive on your ears.
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3 comments:

  1. The BardNovember 27, 2013 at 8:35 AM

    There are a few lines in here with a healthy blow to them, like a punch to the arm or a knee to the thigh. "Time travel violence." The thought of a bruise being a portal is a pungent concept. The cause of a bruise could potentially be a devastating scene to revisit. While the bruise exists, the power of that violent moment still poses a threat to the present.

    We'll done, sir. These lines are extremely compact expressions that can be unfolded indefinitely once unpacked.

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  2. Diamond Cutter JoNovember 28, 2013 at 9:55 AM

    Thank you. Honestly it felt like shit trying to get this into a publishable form, and I don't think it's nearly there yet although I do like the ideas. I guess that's why we do this.

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  3. Algorithm SmithDecember 3, 2013 at 5:07 AM

    agreed on both counts. i think an indefinite unpacking is due from you Joe - perhaps in another piece though... the last couplet is a good start...

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