January 12, 2011

Montagues and Capulets

Exercise thing we did in seminar morphed into a first draft of a poem. Yes, I'm really hungover.

The Montagues and the Capulets

Prokofiev’s downstairs
with his bastard string section.

Give up movement,
I have no time for it.

Do you not sleep, crazy Russian?
Fling this on me:
dying mule
face-first
beside the cold road;

dizzily jump the walls
until shrouds of glass
scratch my throat.

What kind of evil spectre plays this
ugly lurch now?
Soon, I’ll wander tremble-headed
down the stairs –
dying mules
might lose their footing,

so stay safe. Learn to love pain.
11.15am – it's rather dark.

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