I woke up as a dead balloon,
not deflated but worn, smelly, rotten.
Green liquids meant to kill me
slide up sides, leaving air, testing,
I woke up dead but the world scores me
worse than dead,
from long-ago ancestors
who danced drunk in dark streets.
The drunks pull out my guts,
throw them on windows,
and I feel a death
coming on too slow,
not dancing but flooding
streets with shame.
I posted this one for One Shot Wednesday. I’m not certain that it has the right kind of darkness, but it was dark when it was written.
#1 by seabell on May 22, 2011 - 6:46 pm
I like your poem, Carl. We all feel shame for some ancestors (I wouldn’t let them pull out my guts, though!) and the first two lines of your poem, so powerful, left me wondering if I would have the same optimism without my 5m window and this African sun greeting me 99% of the mornings…
#2 by Carl on May 23, 2011 - 10:52 am
Thank you for your comment. You make me wonder if the sun is the cure for the dead balloon feel…I shall try it.
#3 by brian on May 25, 2011 - 10:08 am
whew…i can feel the apathy…yeah you capture the sink into depression well carl…and i appreciated you spotlight over at onestop yesterday…
#4 by Carl on May 25, 2011 - 12:37 pm
Thank you, Brian. Thank you for reading and commenting.
#5 by claudia on May 25, 2011 - 11:19 am
i know the death you’re talking about – the streets flooded with shame..my dad used to drink and sometimes i thought my streets were more flooded than his – but guess i was wrong – i just didn’t see it
#6 by Carl on May 25, 2011 - 12:39 pm
Yes, the problem drinker hides the shame, perhaps looking like a self-centered monster, but it is inside and always growing.