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The poem I can't look for

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  • The poem I can't look for


    Perfumes of habit, conformity, obedience in its mechanical form. This is where the mirror begins, the precautionary glance after the dreams and darkness, primeval gesture, the silent root smells of the sea, how authorized questions light our way. Could I part my hair on the other side? Should I unbutton another button? Do I still bear a resemblance to my passport photo? While a writer explains it, the fear of I don’t know makes it’s routine loop, and the glance at my reflection - like always - escapes against my wishes and marks its presence with a sigh. Better to forget ancient questions, better to brush my teeth, gauge the damage of time in routine self-deception, believing I know something, quickly move on to woke content notions, the reflection soap and steam (damp with waiting) plays at reinventing, a swipe of a sponge reveals what no one can explain… The battle for Eden - wordplay in my skin, glass with intentions beyond the aesthetic, the thing in my ribs that’s not on my identification, a poem intended for immortality intercepted by toothpaste scrawled where my reflection should be, and no ambition to read it…the sunrise smells provincial.

  • #2
    Like this. A lot.

    Comment


    • lunar glide
      lunar glide commented
      Editing a comment
      Thanks RLW. 😊
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