In this poem I am a bookshelf destroyer
forced to watch them
limp towards me
mothballs and rejection
sour sighs about how everything aches
they whisper about that time when a young blonde Francis
was pressed up and groped
against
that small bit of wall
between Little Women and Oliver’s Twist
i nod
roll down my sleeves
tie back my hair
inject the liqui-dissolve
aimlessly
near the gutter of throat
then press my palms
hard on my ears
so I don’t have to hear them
breath beg
to finish
that one last story
Author notes
A poetry module assignment
we were given random words. I got bookshelf and destroy = which I had to translate into an occupation
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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We are called.
Called by creativity: storys that demand endings, visions that scream for expression.
I can see the words falling into you, drowning in your blood, incubate and blossom. Leave you a stew of every thought and a fire of passion burning hearts that are not large enough to allow you to be free.
Love, Tom B.
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