Sunday, 20 July 2008

Old skool poetry 3 - 2004


I'ts buried deep and unseen
a sharp and silver stone
lodged behind the dutiful heart,
inflicting obdurate, yet subtle pain.
Enclosing them, both pump and flint-
a machine, cage construct, shell so cold
with glowering pallor it looms

motionless, with power off.

Decommissioned it comes undone

each screw loosenes, wires ripped out
and final crash into metallic heap
then with a sussurus of slow decay
the stone dissolves
and settles in a shimmering haze.

This molten mass of sharpened dust
that shreds the throbbing orb of blood
in a scream of minced up shards and flesh
is how it feels, chaos, collapse,
a secret stony storm of hurt
deep inside the ribbed cage
behind the plastic smile.

copyright of Po

Dunno what to say. I hadn't learned the art of "minimalism" at this stage of my life. And I clearly really wanted to use the word "sussurus". My word.

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