poetry falcon's Post
a piece i love from the great writer Kelly Anderson reporting from Tanzania:
Swallowing, I realized it had not been a dream. Thick syrup had been poured through a hole in my skull by enchanted mice because they thought I was one of the drunk, obese peasants born during the chalk moon. Maybe I am. I thought I was a motherless pig. So, I had been told. Maybe they are the same thing. Either way, there is the blood of pillagers to consider. Personally, I strived to be a Bohemian, a free thinker with only a stolen knife for protection with a fanatical mistress who keeps one eye closed for ten seconds before switching. It's an homage to Pushkin I think. Maybe Balzac. I don't know. I've never read either. But, I think I had been slammed into silence by a nonexistent author who worked with enchanted mice. This began a long time ago, and the work continues. I am a nonexistent masterpiece in this way. A harmless strange lie sitting on a bus with cannibals and Nazis. Most of them writers with many friends stinking of cigarettes and potted plants holding half cups of tea. All of them shooting out verses from scribbled notes displayed on black mirrors euphoric and jealous. Disdainful silence too. Bad sportsmanship. Lumpy sacks of pretension. Elaborate scams filled with fear of derision jolt me awake. Obvious answers that I can not see because my legs are cramping. Hydration is important. Still, villages are burning and light travels forever without slowing or fading. Both are retribution. Dead or dying yet endless. Brutal arithmetic whispered to slaughtering innocence. Do you smell that smoke? The enchanted mice are celebrating.
By: via poetry falcon
Swallowing, I realized it had not been a dream. Thick syrup had been poured through a hole in my skull by enchanted mice because they thought I was one of the drunk, obese peasants born during the chalk moon. Maybe I am. I thought I was a motherless pig. So, I had been told. Maybe they are the same thing. Either way, there is the blood of pillagers to consider. Personally, I strived to be a Bohemian, a free thinker with only a stolen knife for protection with a fanatical mistress who keeps one eye closed for ten seconds before switching. It's an homage to Pushkin I think. Maybe Balzac. I don't know. I've never read either. But, I think I had been slammed into silence by a nonexistent author who worked with enchanted mice. This began a long time ago, and the work continues. I am a nonexistent masterpiece in this way. A harmless strange lie sitting on a bus with cannibals and Nazis. Most of them writers with many friends stinking of cigarettes and potted plants holding half cups of tea. All of them shooting out verses from scribbled notes displayed on black mirrors euphoric and jealous. Disdainful silence too. Bad sportsmanship. Lumpy sacks of pretension. Elaborate scams filled with fear of derision jolt me awake. Obvious answers that I can not see because my legs are cramping. Hydration is important. Still, villages are burning and light travels forever without slowing or fading. Both are retribution. Dead or dying yet endless. Brutal arithmetic whispered to slaughtering innocence. Do you smell that smoke? The enchanted mice are celebrating.
By: via poetry falcon
Comments
Post a Comment