A Brief Failure of a Poem After Intense Writer's Block
Although everything I write will always be centered around similar themes and similar imagery, this one feels, in retrospect, to be a sort of final little closing chapter in response to the last two poems I wrote. A centipede runs through it all, as does love - or lack thereof. This was cobbled together painfully from small bursts of semi-conscious writing and random bits of imagery that occasionally, without warning, grafted themselves onto my brain. There's more, but I chopped it all away. Butchered in small chunks in dark corners of my room possibly to be revisited and molded into some other Frankenstein monstrosity of pitiful expression at some unspecified date in the future. That is all. William Burrough's last journal entry before his death No Painkiller Machines dissolving into bouts of organ-pink steam Falling apart in forgotten pockets of earth Snow screams out of blown-out tires My car, in suspended dismantling Surging impossible light like a moa...
