POEM

POEM

I only got as far as the sentence:
“it's like Kavanagh on the American misfortune
in a prose resembling waves”

in my brother's PHD on Secret Chord H
before the dog woke me with 
his barking. He'd been barking 

for hours, all through the night,
as if at the voices I can still hear in my sleep. 
In my sleep I can also, evidently, read:

dream up whole, arcane PHD's
that work in the world of words. 
If only they could be smuggled

out of the unconscious, I'd be rich
and famous, neither of which motivate me,
as much as the work itself. 

I'd do well to try and recall the previous
sentence in Dr. Robert's PHD,
but as much as I try I can't. 

◄ IN THE FIELD OF NEW CREATURES RESEARCH

FICTION ►

Comments

No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message