Wednesday, November 15, 2006

I UNWRAP

MY PLASTIC AFTERNOON

WASTED WITHIN ITS BLUE CELLOPHANE COVER,

PLASTERED WITH CONCRETE

MY HANDS,

MOVE SLOWLY

OVER THE SYNTHETIC FOLDS.

CHIPPED GRAY NAILS

OF THE DEAD,

ME

PICK AT THE

TAPE.

A SMALL BIRTH BEGINS,

WITHIN ME.

WHICH WILL DIE A PLASTIC DEATH

AT THIS PLASTIC GIFT

THIS PLASTIC AFTERNOON,

WITHIN THE CONCRETE WALLS,

THAT IS ME.

8 comments:

Rishi said...

Hmm..what is this referring to?..

uglygirl said...

sitting here indoors, when the brightest spot in the day is writing a poem, and then that over, i post it and thennn...........what?
nothing...
mundane dead life that is mine i guess.

Rishi said...

So write again...take yourself back to that bright spot...I guess in a way, all our lives are just collections of such bright spots isnt it?..we keep flitting between those and the mundaneness that we have...

L>T said...

shona, your poems are so wonderful & give me so much & i always feel as if i can't give you back in return.
Only these little words of praise.

serendipiduous said...

:-)

wasted said...

reminds me of one of my lines...'
the plastic garbage
with its plstic creators...

remember?

nice but!

Solbearer said...

damn.

reminded me of some lines from Dead Poet's Society!

uglygirl said...

i dont emember zour poem solan,
and solbearer....i have not seen the movie. Damn.