dust me into the soft dawn
fingers like lathes
we are all
carpenters
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
me
7 comments:
Fantastic!!
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.
Just flows so well from beginning to end, wonderfully done. Such regurgitation does seem to take hold quite a bit.
wow...love it..you make me see those everyday street scenes with new eyes..
smiles...great capture of the scene...the symbolism you use in the crushing of the cigarette as well...nice...
An energetic write, like a cycle in the street....and your ending words are great ~
Very nice ~
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.
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