Memoir Monday: A Poem
This week’s Memoir Monday is a little different. It’s not a diary entry or snippet of reflection.
It is, instead, a poem.
Occasionally, for some reason unbeknownst to me, a poem finds me.
I very, very seldom write them but I found this rather miserable treasure deep in my electronic files this morning and thought I’d bring it to the surface.
I can’t for the life of me recall where I was or when I wrote it. What I do know is that it was a least a decade in the past.
It wasn’t even titled, which leads me to think I was in a particularly sombre state. I wrote though. I wrote.
It’s nice to meet myself again in these moments.
He is a glutinous boneless heap of molten blood
Slack jaw, throbbing
Pain sears at him
Pulsating as a jabbing tribal warrior
Spears into his skin
The waves come with impending, ominous, doom
Although his skin seems numb
A primitive pain clenches at his jaw
Convulses, steams straight to the crushed ball of pain in his throat
A momentary nothingness
He stares at the nothingness, stare, stare, stare, stare, stare, stare
He is the smallest speck of grit on the stained carpet
And yet he is larger than everything
Consumed by his own black hole
Swallowed up inside himself, twisting with the god-like scientific fury of matter
All but nothing
The haunted shadow of others swallowed whole skitter in front of him
A glimpse of complete annihilation
The bridge, the window sill, the moment
He sinks into it
Rolls around in its hedonistic self indulgence, a thick chocolate lacquer of self-loathing
The sexy draw of pity and hot tears
He licks from the window his own raindrops
His own silky sadness
He picks himself out of it elbow by elbow as a marionette
He knows that the sun seeks him out like a yellow clap
Nature calls him back to ease the throbbing in his sockets
Distracts him from his own cat-like introspection
The whirlpool slows to a tepid, smooth undulant heaving mass
It pulsates with his breath
The scent of cut grass