Exotic robots

 

A pencil is potentially profound, 

which creative children and wise peoples

ought utilize.

Methinks even the sky

shall eventually die.

Empty coffee mug on a glass table.

My mom is gone to work

My brother still sleeps.

Anticipating another lonely day

and further adaption into

the cave of solitude.

The worthy world only whirls.

Friendly exotic robots flourish.

Faltering from acceptance

while woe the gate

invites dim worship and

discovery of our abyss.

Gods gracefully control

our slim infinite souls.

Pondering priveledge.

The funeral guest is flustered.

Shake the brain and create.

A whimsical nature correlates.

Do you believe 

birds are gentle jets, serene,

soaring with purpose and peace?

Death is like a shadow

floating into bright destiny.

Words linger wilting.

Reveries and memories

seduce stillness.

The dry leaves fall twirling

with each decent gust.

Scribbles of random thought.

A perfectly fried egg 

in fragrant white rice.

Corrup characters 

don't know themselves.

Always aging relentlessly.

The magic of money.

Patiently awsiting entertainmenf,

thus we meditate.

Sharing a cigarette.

Moths join the night.

I'm going to chug a water bottle

and then hide myself 

in a cozy blanket on the couch

to try relaxing.

Pure sugar in living bananas.

Dinner. 

Goodnight.

 

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J9thxciv's picture

Like the greatest of the

Like the greatest of the Symbolists, you use imagery not for its own sake but in the service of the emotional complex that the poem creates around the reader.  Depending on the emotion presented, this can be either glorious or terrifying; in the case of this poem, it is terrifying.  This poem is also like one of those architectural wonders that appear to be overwhelimg as they tower over the viewer; your poem towers over the reader.  Again I think of an allusion to Eliot, the falling towers in the last section of The Waste Land.  When a poem makes me think back to Eliot, and to the great Frency Symbolists, I know that poem is well ground in the literary history that has preceded it.  Reading this for the first time, I also thought of the readers of The Waste Land before it became a classroom classic:  the emotional shock of the words, the unbridled power of the imagery.  Your poem partakes of this, in subtle ways that reveal themselves to the reader only after each line has been read.  I would not care to stand beneath the towering of this poem on a moonless, starless night:  the way Shelley was frightened of Mount Blanc, I would be frightened of this poem.  To borrow Mary Shelley's words, in the introduction to the 1831 edition of Frankenstein, I think ths poem is "one to make the reader dread to look round . . ."  


J9thxciv, fka Starward

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