the knife

Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by kurenai, Aug 5, 2009.

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  1. kurenai

    kurenai Well-Known Member

    I am not a person of
    politics. My thoughts are not
    clear and clean as life and death
    this side and another

    between above behind and inside
    each side that is a blind paper sheet
    this is not me
    I am not
    a direction

    A not is no signifier
    of what is or
    what can be
    my chest twisting into nots

    huge questions I can't answer
    gurgling out of my mouth
    stupid as spit
    above behind between and inside

    me, everything twisting. turning.
    yearning. Then burning.
    I wish I was clear and clean.
    (I don't want everything to end like this.)

    Your sheets do not define me
    Go away, you origami shapes.
    you won't take me seriously

    for the mask on my face. The soft underside-
    the identity like a penned animal
    snapped-stick feet. This cold vinyl is an identity I choose.

    And I have nothing to lose.
    No my love. You don't want to touch me that way

    What I have in this hand is sharp. You weren't expecting this
    were you? Don't cry, It won't hurt it won't---
    (Silence among leaves.)

    ...
    When I started killing people
    my reasons were plain---
    I circled the answers, crushed the paper
    in my pockets. I defended... something
    or another. The legislators were clapping.
    The townspeople never knew.

    Then I couldn't explain anything.
    The paper melted and was sperm. Small mouths
    bit under my skin. I peeled back
    inch after inch of thick forearm
    to let them out. Vampire bats.

    Then babies. Except they were already half dead
    crawling on six feet. That day, I woke up
    and my bathroom mirror was empty.

    I didn't know anything anymore. Except
    all my sentences had monsters inside them.
    People scream when I touch them
    as they crumble like Xeroxes.

    There is nothing polite about this. Nothing
    all of your voices together or divided can fix. I
    am an anger turned inward, my outer organs gleaming
    pink in the sun, tracks of red tattooed on them.
    I am something worn the wrong way.

    In the kitchen with the sirloin
    I am learning empathy. The knife
    through my dinner, through the meat of my hand.
    We have a bright red thing in common.
    This pain was meant to be.

    ...
    The night is shifting like
    oils at the top of water. I am separated
    into a million places. A cow mourns outside my window.
    Bodiless voices in the street--

    There is no comfort anywhere. I limp
    through singeing grass. You watch me with slow, dark eyes.

    The air, sweat cold and even. Now, you have the knife.
     
  2. ashes_away

    ashes_away Well-Known Member

    marvelous,as usual
     
  3. kurenai

    kurenai Well-Known Member

    Thank you, ashes_away! =)))))))))))))
     
  4. Petal

    Petal SF dreamer Staff Alumni SF Supporter

    wow,brilliant :) :hug:
     
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