J.R. MacLean

a strapped sack
bulging with black pus
spits from the sky’s
blue lips,
freefalls
shedding a
comet’s tail
of dandruff:
a nervous teen’s
banked memories
of sweaty handed
wrongness,
faulting a selfish father,
a cold mother,
mostly
a so-called me
which now splatters
on hard ground;
the straps become snakes
wriggling freely
amongst mud puddles
that simmer
under the real
and radiant sun.

Baron

There seems to be something missing to make me really want to connect with this. It needs something solid to bring the images together.

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Eiji Tunsinagi

Interesting imagery! But I have to agree with Baron...I think this needs at least one solid subject for all this imagery to work around, because it's a bit too random - though the stream of conscience feel is nice.

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"nothing is perfect, nothing lasts, and nothing is finished."

"how will you go about finding that thing the nature of which is totally unknown to you?"

L00kbackinanger

Hi J.R.

It's amazing really. I was browsing around yesterday looking for some new poetry from yourself and dannyboy and couldn't find anything. Tracked you down to Literary Mary's site and read some stuff there.

I can't agree with Baron or the other chap. This is quality. I get the image of a man out walking as the sky changes and the moment brings back a memory. The memory is of father and mother and the storm and rain is a metaphor for their love. Stick around why dontcha?

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"Automagically the game restarted; by chance a leaf fell at our feet. Brittle and veined with shades of umber. Delicately it crunched, like a shuffled deck."
Jacob Stillmarner, The Melody Of The Lucky Not Good, 1944

J.R. MacLean

Baron and ET: thanks for reading guys.

LBIA: Thanks for the kind words and vote of confidence. The central image in my mind is kind of like an ejector seat, like out of a fighter plane. In this case it contains a bunch of psychic crap the narrator is better off without.