October 9, 2018

Is there such a thing as the better poem?

Is there a sound to permeates my ears?

The sound of nothing

that I can’t master with words,

this sense of castration,

of an eternal wait for your pauses and alibis

to rescue me from my sinful thoughts

of kisses where lips never join, never touch.


Silence permeates my ears

and maybe the better poem is made of silence,

melody of surroundings

like the waves of the ocean,

wordless and ample.

Or maybe there isn’t such a thing

as the better poem.


Because no word can depict

the contained explosion of desire,

of flesh and bones and lacerated skin.

This blood that pours from the wound,

its pang.


And a poem,

the better poem,

must be made of blood

of flesh, and bones, and lacerated skin.

And by this enormous pain foaming

from the surface of a deep cut,

touching the core of my angst,

a poem that lacks words,

a poem of wounds,

a wreck into which I dive.


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