I gave my identity, to a charlatan, covered red, with blushed skin who sheepishly accepted, locking himself within a coal vault, he left the key on the partially removed tile, and sealed himself for what he had hoped to be eternity. How strange that I should resemble him now. There is a cold lingering silence each night, which tastes like electricity, tomorrow may not come at all, we easily accept this, I want to accept this, the churning in my stomach.."Wants" to accept it, but he too is peddling away at painted plastic letters, in the hopes of forging barriers between moments. If i were to die today, tomorrow would never come, it would hold still like water-colors, it would grin through Polaroid skin, it would cease to be an expectation and just a paradox of the moment, of a memory, of something which has never happened. I would mourn tomorrow, I would cry steadily and wish for tomorrow to come, i would call it's ill-fated name, it's unidentifiable title and pine for it's presence. The things i would not see, nor live to mention, cheap perfume, warmth of daylight, brisk winds, piano notes. I would miss them equally, and whole-heartedly.
More or less tomorrow will come, and i will be reminded of the stranger in the mirror. No threat and life is empty, life forgets death, and life forgets itself. This maker, would not have opened our eyes, had he preferred them to be closed, best to be bloodshot, than sewed shut, regardless of alien puddle walkers...Mine remain open. Nervosa is an idealist and an idea, I've had him with me since i can remember, he never remembers to abandon me, though I beg him to. Everything good in a man, in a person would be Nervosa, were Nervosa to exist corporally. Yet just a concept I send contempt and envy his way. He is not loved nor wishes to be, he loves regardless, he feels regardless, and holds pity to the fire. I torture myself for all I can do to harm him, is self-mutilation, to abstain from decency, to merely exist as an ash pile, which taints the hooves which trample it. Poor Nervosa...would say "poor me?" and only smile generously. I'm in love, within it, surrounded by it, smothered by it, while it has no direction but inward, caged in thoughts of different faces different feelings. Side views and split shots, calamity, were not for poor Nervosa, I'd be sworn as cupids target practice. We're alone, arn't we, regardless of company, we have our threads of consciousness looming behind us, lane markers on time-freeway. Sometimes, if you break too fast, and skid, the thread bundles into knots, in your throat you can feel them, stuck and irate as they traverse your esophageal tissue. In haste we can only close our eyes until we're too far ahead to look back, to notice the knotted collision we've left behind.
I miss tomorrow
for it cries to be seen
anything which hopes for love
and devotion, deserves
the tools to make it
Poor tomorrow
Is only given today
and how much can be done with that?
A contest entry
- prose & dirty pretty by whiterabbit..
375 points, ended January 12, 2008, 13 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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This is really wonderful. You are such a brilliant writer. I wish I could think of words to describe how great this really is. Amazing job.
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"If i were to die today, tomorrow would never come, it would hold still like water-colors, it would grin through Polaroid skin, it would cease to be an expectation and just a paradox of the moment, of a memory, of something which has never happened."
I read those lines over and over...There is so much here poet that I would take a day or two to uncover all that is written and hidden in these lines let alone this prose in its entirety. You have some magical verses spinning spells here. There are notes here that make the hair raise on the back of my neck. There are moments in this writ that make me halt and daze into space. This is exceptional. The beginning of a great novel that I want to go on and on...
Bravo!
I wish you well in the challenge.
Much Love & Many Blessings ♥
Renee
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Indeed we are threaded and knotted within time and how we identify with it and in turn that is part and parcel of our identity and we may mourn tomorrow and feel the red rush of skin tightening and taste electricity in those moments when we are fired up and have fuse lit but burn ourselves out in the moments of if's,what's and maybe's.Enjoyed this thought provoking write and it's take on time,for time is but a perspective,I recently asked a learned friend just how accurate is history if the measurement of time per se is a man made calculation? We turn the clocks back and forth according to seasons,we have a leap year with an extra day every four years and these are also man made calculations and yet we never question the measurement of time but search for the elusive tomorrow that never comes,tomorrow will be the today you dreamed about yesterday...
Especially liked the penultimate stanza,I myself miss the tomorrows that all of my yesterdays I had hoped to have and to hold...
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The whole time I was reading this a quote from an essay I read for my Composition class was resounding in my head.
"'Do you ever ask God, Why Me?'...and I looked at him and said, 'No Michael, I don't. Because every time I try the only response I can think of is, Why not?'"
That's what part of this piece seems to be saying to me. The parts about Nervosa just seem to be in beautiful harmony with that idea. But I don't think that that's the subject of this poem.
It appears to me that your last stanza is your thesis. The whole idea that the above muse was based on. And the fact that the majority of this piece is written in a semi-paragraph form really enforces the feeling of a muse. It radiates of flowing thoughts once compiled in a journal and then summed up by a few poetic lines.
It is beautiful, brilliant and well constructed! Kudos my friend!
Cynn
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