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January |
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a poem by Gillian Prew
5 questions partly answered
[1] Where do these thoughts wander when they are not here?
- All alone in drains drifting shit-brown and scared in
the absurd effluence of delirium. A cascade of sex and poetry
is truth, which, after all, is nothing but the ability of something to
recognize itself as helpless.
[2] Why does it matter where life begins?
- All my thinking a cacophony of births, mutations
of a disinherited alphabet. All my poetry abortions.
My cells self-destructing. My womb meekly dying.
[3] Who is this man here sleeping?
- He has known the tip of my tongue, the recess of my throat,
has planted well in the indigenous acid of my belly. He breathes
alongside me and his hand in mine, much less than suffering.
[4] When will the black sloth of too much time boycott its future?
- Its beer lungs drunk and bloated on breathing, it hangs, belching
the present into the forest air. It will die there, probably.
[5] What of the white that hangs in my hair?
- Soon enough.
the absurd effluence of delirium. A cascade of sex and poetry
is truth, which, after all, is nothing but the ability of something to
recognize itself as helpless.
of a disinherited alphabet. All my poetry abortions.
My cells self-destructing. My womb meekly dying.
has planted well in the indigenous acid of my belly. He breathes
alongside me and his hand in mine, much less than suffering.
the present into the forest air. It will die there, probably.