mrgiles

Poems.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

63

when there’s nothing left but nouns to push against even
gangsters feel the throat’s knifetwist as old emotions
bump out the darkened theatre. now as i read
my diary i see a pattern take form;
shit splattered on pages, concentric rings of excrement:
can this be all that’s left of the grammar books
they fed me, the house of hours where i learnt to
hear? foot to foot jumps keep my nerves nicely tense;
my sense, though, may never catch up. dreams fall to
hunger in my night; even maccas close their doors