Monday, 10 August 2009

Poem : Whilst looking at Ginsberg.

I have recently noticed that when reading poetry, 

I read the last lines first.

I pondered over this for some time, 

with no real sense of what I was looking for,

no inherent conclusion.


like a brass knuckle shuffle, it hit me in the face.

A moth fluttering, caught in the gaze of my peripherals

clambering from the sight of light

on what must have seemed like

an infinite plane of landscaped glass

held my attention for no real purpose

a misfiring by product of evolution;

a malfunctioning navigational system

electricity the choreographer.

What objective truth was I searching for,

why can't I touch this infinite expanse of water and sand?

I continued, under the superior gaze of a desk lamp, 

to read the last lines of each poem

never noticing that the moth had flown away.

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