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ANGRY MAN if steam were blood he’d be a boiler fit to burst; he spoke in blisters, in white-hot breath, dragon’s tongue setting fire to his own words, melting any reply; all you could do was wait and watch until he cooled down or burnt himself out; at best, you’d be dealing with scars, at worst, a lump of ash; your love would soothe the pain in his rough skin or blow from your palm, the dust of his self-sacrifice. GEORGE’S RED PERIOD Meanwhile, in the Luddite camp, spirits are hoisted
headward in a gush of aimless bliss; a painting’s birth, brush and oil and
canvas and a grinning artist devoid of all electric toothbrushes, shavers, garage door openers. Score one for the
sting-rays gliding under sea and
a west wind feathering the tree tops. To celebrate, those who can’t paint dance, or sing, or write poetry. It’s all the
same machine-less work. Trust me. I
INTERRUPT YOUR LIFE TO BRING YOU... Once
the burglar alarm went off at three a.m. And another time, a car slammed into
a pole right outside our house in the middle of the night. And there’s been pebbles on the window, rain,
while I was sleeping. And thunder of course which is no respecter of pleasant
dreams. Then there’s those inside the body noises, pangs of guilt, worries from work, sometimes nothing but memories
that keep popping into the brain when a complete void is called for. There’s times I feel there’s been more sleep
interruptions than there has been sleep. It’s getting to be like life
which, by this, is nothing but its interruptions. Life, you know, the eternal
waking. This thing that poems derail.
-- J. Grey |
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