in prison they chop the onions the same way,
cut the peppers down the sides and into pieces.
they hum these burtonesque tunes and
say things like cool and come.
they don't seem to think anymore because
they've frozen away their sensations,
jailed them up with the packaged chicken
and the chilled beers wine whatever.
they take you to supermarkets at night
singing playing loudly fun song fun song
then you spit out the stick from the ice cream bar
on a porch with an old man, tells you look at the stars
but you can't see anything
and you can't be calm.
you know, sometimes, your poetry is too familiar to me, I can understand it, and sometimes, you choose lines from the myriad of small thoughts and twine them together. Sometimes, it is Something Distant.
ReplyDeleteCheers
Blasphemous