Flat channels divide
dangerous pathways my brain
seems to love, darkly,
so I plunge deeply to find
large oak branches, parallel,
for hanging is good
for dead, stolen spirits fly-
ing, bumping rocks of
hatred, and here I blast through
nothingness, leaving traces.
Death, Depression, Fear, Poems, Poetry, Take Me To The Hospital, Tanka
This entry was posted on February 4, 2017, 7:20 pm and is filed under Poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through RSS 2.0. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
| Blog: |
| Stillfugue |
Topics: |
| Fiction, Poetry, Essays |
stillfugue
#1 by calvin on February 4, 2017 - 11:18 pm
From this side looking in to this dark mind space as described, it appears cavernous. I don’t how one makes it out of this subterranean brain. I suppose ‘rocks for words’ help. Perhaps there is something to ‘explaining art to a dead hare’.
Carl, good to see the Black Jaguars circling just outside the fortress wall haven’t got to you. Its good to read you again.
#2 by Carl on February 5, 2017 - 2:24 pm
Thank you so much, Calvin! Is Hudson Howl fighting the battle? I appreciate your comment. I suddenly thought about the fact that writing terrible poetry is far better than writing no poetry, and if one person likes a little piece here or there, it is just like winning the Powerball. Kind of.
#3 by calvin on February 5, 2017 - 8:14 pm
If what you do is terrible then am just flinging shit in the air in hopes something sticks.
I don’t even care if someone likes what I do. But it is like winning the lottery if someone interacts or least takes a stab at it. Am done with blogging, having turned the switch off. I have discovered I like persons more then I like people. The main site has been taken down and will start over. Hudson Howl has been locked in the trunk of the car. I think will let him , along with an old crow and dirty unkempt fairy.