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.
7 comments:
Hmm..what is this referring to?..
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.
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...
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.
reminds me of one of my lines...'
the plastic garbage
with its plstic creators...
remember?
nice but!
damn.
reminded me of some lines from Dead Poet's Society!
i dont emember zour poem solan,
and solbearer....i have not seen the movie. Damn.
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