Wordle #97

Week 97

I still remember

the way sleep smells,

the bitter cleanse,

the syncopated fog

twirling beneath my temples.

An avocado tincture

elastic against my tongue

and I too feeble to swallow.

These white walls,

not unlike a timepiece,

tick and snarl.

Every time I draw near

I am drawn apart.

My visceral ravings

pummeled by currents

indigestible without compensation.

All it takes to be happy

is to let go of the ego

and if you cannot let go

let the machine drink

of your memories, of your sorrows,

of your belligerence.

I don’t remember when

I became you and I can’t say,

unequivocally, that I have.

Normal is relative

under certain circumstances

and in certain company

I am quite ordinary.

There are so many versions

of myself, volumes taken up

and laid down with pages missing

and whole passages blackened

to charcoal by the phoenix

underneath my tongue.

 

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24 responses to “Wordle #97

  1. This is phenomenal poetry. I’m particularly fond of these sections:

    the first ten lines

    “and if you cannot let go
    let the machine drink
    of your memories, of your sorrows,
    of your belligerence” … I will never let go, nor will I do anything to feed machines. I think they are the root of all evil. Hands are out of work because machines have taken over. It pisses me off that we’re raising children who really have to go to college or they won’t be able to get jobs and take care of their families. I wish we could go back to growing our own food, etc. and just trading and sharing supplies. I’m just about ready to become Amish. 😛

    the last three lines … love those too

    • I know exactly what you mean, I sometimes think of returning to such a life but I imagine it is bloody hard work! Work with purpose and honor though. I have no idea how well I’d do in that scenario, I certainly don’t possess the skills for it at present

  2. This was beautiful. The opening was sublime. Your last lines read like the setting for a gothic romance: “and whole passages blackened to charcoal by the phoenix underneath my tongue.”

  3. Wow! What a vision you have painted Yves!

    and if you cannot let go
    let the machine drink
    of your memories, of your sorrows,
    of your belligerence.

    mind-blowing! (no pun intended) – the line – let the machine drink – chilling but fascinating.

    and whole passages blackened
    to charcoal by the phoenix
    underneath my tongue.

    strange, unsettling and wholly disturbing, in a fascinating and macabre way – brilliant!

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