Fishing for wood
on the edge of my
mattress
is one of the fine pleasures
of my
room.
I fiddle and fidget
with toiled
cigarettes
lit and spiralling
between my fingers.
There is
still a pong
of poignant
female
corroding my
hormones.
it won’t
let me lie
in a tranquil
daze,
catching the rays
of the green sun
in my desert dreams.
You have to wonder
(my reader)
whether there
is any point
to a woman’s man,
ladies’ man,
man’s man
gay’s man
no-one’s man
living in this
dust of clog,
arteries and
veins;
organs all
working to complicate
one another.
The night is
holding it’s torch
soaring in the sky
looking down on
a whole country
sleeping whilst a
dripping man
failing man
clown man
dead man
is still awake.
You could say
that I stumbled
upon the only certainty.
Mary X.
This is indeed a fine piece the flow is so well constructed and the language is wonderful.
Fascinating poem. A great read and thought provoking! Is there an impotent, too quick to climax, archetype of the average man here, or am I reading too much into the dripping, failing, clown, dead, awake man?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is an evocative poem, Mary.....keep writing...and don't be afraid to edit to perfection....You're off to a great start.