Nonsense

So, I’ve been forced to write poetry.  I think the point of poetry is basically to remove plot from prose, the more the better. I find the process ridiculous.

Want to know how to write poetry?

It’s easy. Remove most of the important words and insert line breaks at random.

For instance:

Dramamine is the end of any real travel

 

There’s no one here, just the glow

Of sun in blades

Through the pulled shades.

A living room is couches and chairs and ridiculous things

 

Two lights live here, outside the slick slices of sun

Two red intersticies orbiting the dark body of nobody.

The burning red of a cigarette

And You, red burning vacuum tube,

burn on like bourbon

Like emotion I only really feel in my fingers

Leave the red all over the wall

 

We share our eccentricity, we’re Pluto and Charon, baby

We’re all on our own here. Bodies in space sharing orbit always orbit

nothing. Some extrapolated center. But we got our gravity.

Our graviton, such as weak attractions go,

stretches between us

Like a gold ended black, rubber python

Strung through the empty bottles and over books

It’s too dark to read.

 

You know you got the job of a priest?

Turn my nothings and movings

on this ebony board and nickel-steel

Make it holy

Rectified. Justified. Sanctified.

 

I can watch the dust move in its harvest gold equation

Away from the speakers and away from my breathing

And away from the vibrating phone telling me she’s calling again

She’s worried about us, you know

She thinks we need to be outside

Around all of them, mostly her.

Just like the other missed call hers.

But it’s just me, you and this

Jaguar.

 

I remember once a woman in the Old Church

Wanted a baby more than anything, but God said no.

When she got pregnant, the praises were sung, and so forth

Her baby was a black mass of deformity and dead.

Deader than you.

 

The calendar says it’s a holy day.

I certainly agree.

 

It’s not great, but passable. It’s worse than calculus.  It’s like worded death.

Fucking poetry.