I’m thinking with all of my might.
When pen hits the paper,
Thoughts vanish like vapor
The black hole is eating all light.
I wish I had a cause for fight.
A riot or rag to incite…
Something must be to blame…
Someone for me to shame
For my self-discontentment tonight.
I wish I could see what is right.
I’m observing with all my insight.
Commenting on paper,
Is most certainly safer,
Then pursuing what living invites!
You and I are laughing and laughing and having fun… We gaze into each others consciousness and you smile and cover lips with your finger as I gesture playfully. Closer and closer we become as our surrounding melts away until only universe that matters is the one created in the three feet space between you and I. A simple small talk conversation about nothing important, with content soon to be forgotten, yet so engaging that the universe itself shall break all laws to bend and fit between us …as if it wishes to carry upon its shoulder the feathery light conversation of a Sunday afternoon
of this moment with nature.
they bind me to other people.
the silence emancipates us.
I write Like James Joyce? That a hell of a complement.
**I don’t know if James Joyce wrote a lot of poetry; he best known for his novels, prose and plays.
In Ulysses and Finnegan Wake he employed the “Stream of Consciousness” Narrative. Stream of consciousness, replaced traditional periodic Meta-narrative with the continuous flow of perception -reflection- and reactions of that mimics a persons thought process.
In Ulysses moves back and forth through history and western cultures implementing this narrative. Finnegan’s Wake used the narrative style explore the symbolism and ambiguity of conscious, between dream and reality.
I call would it a ” heap of broken images” (from T.S. Elliot’s the Wasteland).
If you have a blog or web page, you can find out “who you write like”. Click the picture above.
“Captive Blue-Eyes…Alas we meet.”
– she laughs
smoldering cigarette smoke
climbs from cafe` counter to the ceiling
an ashtray tongue licks and breathes dust
curling and twisting outward & upward
like a good story.
“Whats your story? “..
– she winks
eyelashes curling and twisting
“Everyone has a story”
“I’ve had a thousands stories”
“they all end with my death”
“Time to write a new story”
— she nods
Over her shoulder
The door blows open…