I am my own son, born daily
to the memory
of the day before.
I smack my arse for signs of life,
clean my teeth,
peel back lips.
Brushing new born blood
to porcelain white.
I am my own son.
I may well kill today,
a spider on the rug,
a commuter on the train.
I contemplate a whistle.
Blood slides clockwise
down the drain.
Last edited by Jerrybaldy; 05-31-2013 at 11:09 AM.
For those who believe,
no explanation is necessary.
For those who do not,
none will suffice.
See what I found, I almost missed this little star!
Love 1st and 2nd stanzas. Fourth is brilliant, with "the commuter on the train" *gulp*
I thought things go counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere. At least that's how I imagine tmy screwdriver if I swirl my glass. Clink! x
"But do you really, seriously, Major Scobie," Dr. Sykes asked, "believe in hell?"
"In flames and torment?""Oh, yes, I do."
"That sort of hell wouldn't worry me," Fellowes said."Perhaps not quite that. They tell us it may be a permanent sense of loss."
"Perhaps you've never lost anything of importance," Scobie said.
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