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Morning
I'm two cigarettes away from
The office, as whitewashed winds nip
My exposed cartilage,
Blushing in the milk stained air.
Blades spittled with morning
Lick at my calves;
As greasy lipstick fills
My mouth from the shrinking filter.
Dead branches dissect light like scissors
Cutting silk into skinny ribbons.
I strike up my next match,
Breathing in the burning.
Mosquitoes dance around singular streams:
Nimble as children around a maypole.
Their wings reflect light
Like settled dust on windowsills,
Disturbed by movement.
I push the second butt out beneath my sole:
Fire extinguishes in the asphalt,
Before opening the door, and leaving sweat marks.
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| This is a perfect little mood piece... like a poetic snapshot. Excellent imagery. The comparisons are awesome. This really calls out to the abstract artist in me, like I'd love to make a painting based on these words. |
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| What vision. |
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Comment by: - 2006-11-18 10:56
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at first i was put off by the lack of this poem really doing anything, but then by the end i realized that that was it's power.
the cold and the transitions really brought the piece to life. |
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| "my exposed cartilage".for me that could be a poem itself. its soo goodddd i love all the imagery |
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Comment by: - 2006-07-11 12:18
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I'm impressed by the control in this hip, slick poem. Your opening line pulls the reader into your private world and drags them along for the journey. I do find the 4th stanza a little out of sync with the rest of the narrative. Morning mosquitoes seem incongruous and I can't see how these 4 lines relate to the journey to work.
You final sweat marks are a fantastic devise to leave your mark at the end of the poem. |
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