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Monday, May 8, 2017

The Revolt of the Unwritten Poems


In the darkest memories
where everything seems just vision
in the time before before birth
when everything is explained
to any soul that would become a being
where the simplest instructions
of breathing or sensations
are taught in unstructured classes
where choices are made
for parents and siblings
where basic mistakes
are explained in depth
only to be wiped away
by the complexities of birth itself
now many years later
a protest begins
deep in a confused and tortured mind

here
the unwritten poems
march down the rugged paths
of expectional creation
only to be tossed away
when washing the dishes
or sitting in the doctor's office
reading a year old magazine
that leans in an odd direction
of travel to places
that are too expensive
for a common poet to attain

These poems have been sitting
in the dark of a mental fog
more poisonous than any
from Sherlock's London
or Beijing just yesterday
They plot their revolt
complete with Eisensteinian stairways
upon which a mutha-writer screams
for his baby rolling down stairs
in its black and white pram
while throngs of angry poems
are shot by royalist soldiers
whose fingers refuse to touch
a keyboard or pick up a pen

There were no instructions
on how to deal with these poems
and so they sit in the darkness
building their anarchistic bombs
that are set to explode
as the first thoughts of day
push aside the dreams of sleep
There is no inner police force
equipped to investigate
these piles of uncreated angers
that may only have one bang-up image
or an ill-formed title
that now hangs in the air
for it to breathe the horrors
much like those perfumed garbage bags
from the local crapateria
that stink a kitchen
where poets do their dishes
and destroy the beginnings of poems
unable to make their Tarkovskian births

It should be noted
that references to Russian film directors
is only provided to confuse the reader
and are not based
upon any real understanding by this poet
They are an attempt to make him appear
educated and wise in the ways
of poetic imagery
In other words, careful, this poet
might be a poseur
who can't write his way
out of a trite and smelly plastic bag

Sshhhhh, they turn the corner
holding their blank signs
ready for David Lean's Zhivago
to witness the sabers slashing
unformed poems
who only seek bread
and something
else now forgotten like justice
peace
love
and stuff from the crapateria


Barry G. Wick



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