Discipline
The tin can hits; incisors, molars, wincing gums –
a funk of prosperity
and that slowly sliding choke
of clarity.
It is way over the lip.
This need in you to visit words, to prick the soles of syllables
with flags,
why – it burps; your thoughts too fizzy
with effect.
(The cataracts of too many dotted
eyes, the lust of swallowed euphoria leaves
each Narcissist, the hollow of a Russian Doll.)
So you want a gasp?
This grasp of the page like it is a collar, this face pressed up,
and scent of a breath -
“It’s like you knew me.”
I cannot do this anymore;
everything clumsily thrown into a glass
iced with your austerity;
a sobriety that could not last.
Mikhail Smith
Fri 9th Nov 2012 15:04
I'm reminded of a hypnotist who wrote down our forgotten dreams so he could study them later, he turned to art and photographed the night sky, his photographs showed little points of light in the darkness.