A marching band on the brain stem
Winds its way across medulla oblongata
Step-stepping along the occipital lobe.
Stray colour guards spin their jewel-bright flags
Along nerve-endings and
Tap, tap, tap behind a pair of eyes.
A memo seethes, unwritten beneath fingertips
While a poem crawls itself to life.
Hands reach for - banana chips and a sip of water.
Every footstep, jangling of keys is an excuse to
Not write.
Not work.
Not concentrate.
The sergeants played a marching tune...
(83 words)
4 comments:
It almost sounds like a headache coming on. I enjoyed the progression descriptions.
Apathy is not he work I am looking for, perhaps detachment from the current situation.
I did in fact have a headache this morning while I wrote this, so that's that. The poem itself felt disjoined to me, and not in a good way.
Structurally it also feels horribly uneven.
Oh darling, darling, I love you because you are a lover of the imagist movement. (That's what they called it right? Ugh. My brain is all wonky right now.) The poem really is lovely, but I would work on the title. I, as a gamer, know what you are referencing, but your readers will probably have a hard time connecting your title to your poem.
Yes, it is the imagist movement. And you're right, non-gamers would totally fail at the title. I'm lame at titles, I'll have you know. You come up with awesome titles for my stuff - another reason (of the many) that I'm glad you're here.
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