literature

Unfinished Sympathy

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RedWombat's avatar
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Published:
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Literature Text

Screws in my unconscious.
Trip and break, hammer-heavy.
I stand on my computer-chair. Kitchen chair.
And blow blueberry bubbles down onto the candles below.
I wrote soliloquy in green.
They didn't translate well.

Tell me your hates.
Irks and loves and the way you like your ink to taste.
Tell me tell me tell me
I chant.

Spray-painted when no one was looking,
half-intoxicated on the fumes and guitar strings,
wiring masks on mechanical beasts.



I'm building myself,
in unfinished sympathy,
on my bedroom floor.
It is time, again, to build something.
Something of my own hands.
© 2008 - 2024 RedWombat
Comments7
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xlntwtch's avatar
This is good. I like it a lot.
A couple of things grabbed my interest immediately... once I recovered from the last three lines.

Well -while I'm in those last three -I thought the word "sympathy" was going to be (or, Actually it Was, first-time-read)-"symphony"
...I saw it first as "...an unfinished symphony"...

ThaT is why I like poetry so much.

I find it very difficult to write myself -but love reading it/hearing it at poetry slams.
ThaT = are the myriad ways poetry evolves, a moment to moment emphasis on Now-New.
ie: This is new. No, that's what's new.

Dang.
Your whole poem is new each time it's read.
This one fills the bill & leaves a great tip too.
Thank you.
...............................................................................................:+fav:



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