The Broken Shoulder Poem by Cornelia Ceilings
The Broken Shoulder
Soporific, transient images float;
the shooting pain keeps me vivid
as Delauney, except my palette is
pain not paint. The limp head hangs
like an adolescent on a saturday.
My shoulder hurts.
I am lost in the corridors of my mind;
there are no signs left;
the handles have turned to dust.
My mental vending machine is empty now
except for the pain bar and the packet of agony.
My shoulder hurts.
Outside the window a man is mowing gravel;
Shall I look? Can I move?
I smash the glass and blood appears.
But there is no blood!
Then why is my vision smeared?
My shoulder has fallen off.
I was struck by the sensitivity of this subtle and moving piece. An initial sense of the contrived quickly gave way to an overwhelming feeling of empathy for the persona. Vivid and visceral, the imagery cannot fail to pierce the heart of even the most lifeless of deadbeats. A must for anyone who has experienced the peculiar pleasure of a broken limb!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/24/2024 2:34:22 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Three months on poem hunter and I've finally, finally finally phecking realised that this is where all the fruit cakes come to jam as in jam like Hendrix. In another Alphabet poem hunter would be an anagram of Monty Python. Excuse me while I finish my blended oatenfishloavesdefroamgerie. As I was saying: would you like me to put a flake in that? ?