On Formlessness


From a poem
came a creation
losing its way.

A Frankenstein’s creature.
Sprung.

From from
in line one
it leveraged
Itself
out of the pulsing maw
where
It belonged.
Gulping air
in new red-skinned rawness.

But as always,
the birth of penning
to paper,
limits.
Birth
sacrifices the infinite
for the actual.

Yet i had such good intentions.

Without the words
there was truth
and purity,
so I’m reluctant to shut up
because
as long as this conversation
continues,
there is hope.
Things can get pulled round.

(His death has unstuck me..
Meanings have become soliloquies
instead of conversations.)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s