| on sifting through the contents of an old jacket's pocket
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AEOS
| hands carried away on | 1 |
canvas wings, fingers prod | 2 |
into darkness and reach | 3 |
deep for hope. | 4 |
grit of seven years' dust | 5 |
and spare tobacco change | 6 |
trade places with one | 7 |
and another's decay. | 8 |
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(cobweb and mold) | 9 |
dried blood flakes | 10 |
from a used movie ticket. | 11 |
ticket stub. | 12 |
as the bitter scents of | 13 |
smoke and beer | 14 |
breathe their way | 15 |
into my senses, | 16 |
punched in like holes | 17 |
through cardboard, | 18 |
my finger feels the | 19 |
bite-back and jerks | 20 |
from its hiding spot. | 21 |
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one cigarette butt and | 22 |
an old movie ticket | 23 |
stained with cheap perfume | 24 |
and eyeliner, | 25 |
mascara tears or | 26 |
blood, crimson like severity. | 27 |
serenity of remembrance. | 28 |
remember | 29 |
memory. | 30 |
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9 Feb 05 |
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Comments:
comments?
— AEOS
it IS like a pocket. dark in a woobly way, no?
— spaces
i like the subject but the poem is not doing it for me.
it seems like each of the 3 parts says about the same thing.
i think you should go deeper, or find more stuff in your pocket,
or more interesting stuff, or make the stuff say more...
you could do so much with this.
— unknown
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