Newsprint leaves black smudges on my fingers
The weather turns to mud, the headlines are erased
I’m too tired to sleep and too happy to sing
Leading a melancholy horse to water, a pig to trough
Like meeting a poet face-to-face,
Expecting him to act like he writes.
My fingers tell the story of an IED
A newborn panda and a pipeworker’s strike,
Electron microscopes to see the future of minutia,
Bits of detail like a bottle of tears:
Red #40, an epidemic from a cough,
Splotchy skin and a list of sin brings you to me.
A thumbtack hole filled with cheap black ink,
I throw away the pages to the sound of an empty arena.
No cheers or jeers or eager rhythms to sink into
Only newsprint, leaving smudges on my hands.
Author notes
my username is hacim
A contest entry
- jfhljf by Makinbettachoices.
600 points, ended March 28, 2008, 15 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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I really like this one. but i don't read the paper myself, it is Discouraging. but despite that i realy like this one.
KNIGHT TIME -
keep going
good luck on the contest -
good luck with the contest ah newsprint a thing of the past perhaps? no fixative/less costly for newspapers/rags good write thanks for sharing regards zaj
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