06 March 2012

my cannibal

dust me into the soft dawn
fingers like lathes
we are all
I flick
cigarette ash
onto the concrete pavement it falls
like a paintbrush
an old man fresh from the temple
blends it into a canvas
of earth and sky with his worn
down sandal, his slight stoop
the way
he limps
a sore hip or
just age giving shape to my detritus
this morning the bins
shook their fists as their throats
emptied into the dislocated
jaw of a machine
held for a moment
in metallic arms
then swiftly gulped, crushed
my street cannibalising itself and
me regurgitating


Diana Lee said...


hedgewitch said...

Really an excellent poem in all ways--image and language, and the impact of each. A pleasure to read, and easy, inviting, to re-read.

Pat Hatt said...

Just flows so well from beginning to end, wonderfully done. Such regurgitation does seem to take hold quite a bit.

Claudia said... make me see those everyday street scenes with new eyes..

Brian Miller said...

smiles...great capture of the scene...the symbolism you use in the crushing of the cigarette as well...nice...

Heaven said...

An energetic write, like a cycle in the street....and your ending words are great ~

Very nice ~

Charles Miller said...

You've packed in some instants of the life of the street that embodies your alienation. The way you characterize it in surreal terms turns it from something we would all know into something that each street harbors if webwere only to look closely and see some of its hidden aspects. Several lineses really struck me, indicating either indifference or perhaps an awareness of how the world around always changes shape, especially the old man stepping on ash, perhaps an allusion to other times, other historical realities.