The Poet's Page

Click, click,
Zing!
A word;
A mouthful.
A fluster of fingers creating a voice.

Phrases and fragments fly:
A sentence,
A poem,
A paragraph.

Soon my thoughts fill the page,
Spilling
And sloshing
And twisting.

Until I can no longer control what I write.
The work is no longer mine
Or perhaps it never was.

Reviews

[J. Alfred Prufrock]

"smile" i like this one too. "or perhpas it never was" is very intuitive. very post modern.

‘“I” am I
I “say;”
But you would never “know” it,
([if] you could “know” anything)
[if ] what the post modernist “say” is “true,”
[if] they could “say” anything,
or anything that hasn’t already been “said” (rather);
otherwise it wouldn’t “really” be them “saying” it;
and that’s the whole point (isn’t it?);
but not [a] “point” in space or time,
“it’s just [a] “point’ of ‘reference.’”’


cheers
prufrock