Mornings

Mornings

A Poem by w2de35657u687y4324rf

You wake up somewhere
Between a banquet of baby-blue constellations
In a nebular float parade
And the black purgatory that hangs
In stasis under the shower drain. 

Your narcolepsy has got you 
Into a New York pay phone booth at three A.M. 
You draw your clammy overcoat of denim tight around you
As to make the impression of a mother's arms
Whilst you lean heavily against the glass.

You're singing little seraph hymns into the receiver 
In soprano under damp street-lights of dull white
but there's a dead tone
and no one's listening.   

You wake up somewhere
And try to change your life,
But you've been comatosed 
For eighty-five years
And you've lost your sense of direction
To the blue and green imps that run round
And steal your polka-dotted socks.

You're flinging someones clothes across the room
And soaking the sweater their grandmother knitted them
In vomit and other unsightly forms of discharge
As to make a political statement
that you've momentarily, and forevermore, forgotten. 

You're standing on the ledge 
Of their infant's nursery window
With the soft blue pulsing of a clown nightlight behind you
You're looking six stories down. 

You wake up somewhere familiar
To nurses
And other patrons that just don't give a f**k anymore. 

You recollect a thought 
hammered deep into a nook by medication 
and remember the meadows of youth
that blossomed with your physical decline.

You try to stand and unhook the IV from your right arm,
But your legs are broken again.

You wake up somewhere
And try to change your life
But the only ledge for you to pull yourself up on
is the electrical outlet to your nutrient machine. 

You wake up for the final time
and haul open the hospital window with your fragile old fingers
to taste the night air and city streets
Before you die just like before, but nevermore.

© 2012 w2de35657u687y4324rf


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Featured Review

A wonderfully descriptive tour through a nightmare existence. The lines between reality/memory-illusion/delusion blur to great effect. The form itself serves the poem well as thoughts and images flow out creating their own shapes.
Another excellent job.

*In the fifth stanza-Is that supposed to be clothes-instead of cloths?*


Posted 8 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.




Reviews

A wonderfully descriptive tour through a nightmare existence. The lines between reality/memory-illusion/delusion blur to great effect. The form itself serves the poem well as thoughts and images flow out creating their own shapes.
Another excellent job.

*In the fifth stanza-Is that supposed to be clothes-instead of cloths?*


Posted 8 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

wow.... nice job! i love how you set the destination and mood of the poem, like its a story plus it has good rythem which is always good, and makes the poem more eaiser to read, and understand.i really like yourwork and cant wait to hearmore from you! :D
- Mariah

Posted 8 Years Ago


I am a huge fan of your writing. You make several extremely strong statements that kind of hit you in the face, for example: "You're flinging someones cloths across the room
And soaking the sweater their grandmother knitted them
In vomit and other unsightly forms of discharge
As to make a political statement
that you've momentarily, and forevermore, forgotten. "

I like especially in that stanza, the forevermore, forgotten, and then in the last stanza, the before, but nevermore. The play on words there is fantastic! The recurring descriptions and colors, like the baby blue, is interesting to me because that is a calming color, a symbol of rebirth if you will. That ties in nicely with the different wakings up.
This whole piece seems to me like a reflection on life, why we live, why we doubt that reason, as we're "looking six stories down".

Absolutely phenomenal.

Posted 8 Years Ago


a great one; I love how you set the mood and I like how you told the story. This poem is deep in sorrow and loss and still you can gently feel a bit of hope emerging from the blackness. One very enjoyable read.

Posted 8 Years Ago


Ah, I love the sense of hopelessness throughout. We get the sense at the beginning that the speaker's not going to make it through this life- but you hope, since you manage to generate sympathy for his plight. It was lines such as 'infant's nursery window' that really me engage with and feel for the speaker. You also darken stereotypically nice images, such as the grandmother's sweater, which to me just defines how lost and how hopeless he has become. It's like this guy has believed in something all his life, only to find out that it's a lie, and this is the emotional result. The second stanza is the best- it's almost prose-like, and your description of the jacket was just lovely. I also applaud using the medium of waking up in the mornings to move the story on, used before but you make it fresh again. I enjoyed this piece a lot.

Posted 8 Years Ago


the static existence~ gad you do know how to pull the soul's sinew through the eye of the demon's needle~ we're our own worst enemies I fear sometimes~ there are a dozen layers in pulse beating at the doors of consciousness~every stanza splinters that door and spits a splinter into the subconscious~ there is LIFE~ but how many truly live it~ I know I'm guilty of the repetitive cycles of unlife~ kicker is there is no death until we've schooled ourselves in life~ adore your mind and how it works through the imagery reel and the imaginary real~

Posted 8 Years Ago



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Added on September 30, 2011
Last Updated on March 25, 2012

Author

w2de35657u687y4324rf
w2de35657u687y4324rf

Tucson, AZ



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