Monday, April 25, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Pain/Pain
Here's a rare thing: a poem I wrote in 2009. Just came across a paper copy in my stuff, and searched on my computer for it; my document must've been among the data I lost when my laptop got stolen a couple years ago. Glad I found this! Enjoy!
Pain/Pain
Breathe into the pain.
"I haven't got time for the pain," says Carly Simon.
P-A-I-N is French for bread.
"French toast" is called pain perdu, to the French.
Frenchy is a character from Grease.
"Grease is the word," but there is no word for the kind of pain I'm in.
I am in pain, I am pained. I am pained to find words for the pain.
Grease is viscous. It lubricates things.
Smear it on your motor bearings, but don't smear too much.
Oil works pretty good, as does butter.
Watch the butter melt and sizzle in the pan | in which you place the pain perdu.
I've lost my toast. Has anyone seen my toast?
$5.00 reward for the recovery of my lost toast.
My toast has been subsumed by a viscous batter of egg and milk.
The batter is viscous, and might as well say it: the batter is vicious.
The batter has viciously taken away my pain, but it hasn't taken away my pain.
My pain is gone.
I am pained to say, my pain is gone.
© 2009, 2011 bree_zip
Pain/Pain
Breathe into the pain.
"I haven't got time for the pain," says Carly Simon.
P-A-I-N is French for bread.
"French toast" is called pain perdu, to the French.
Frenchy is a character from Grease.
"Grease is the word," but there is no word for the kind of pain I'm in.
I am in pain, I am pained. I am pained to find words for the pain.
Grease is viscous. It lubricates things.
Smear it on your motor bearings, but don't smear too much.
Oil works pretty good, as does butter.
Watch the butter melt and sizzle in the pan | in which you place the pain perdu.
I've lost my toast. Has anyone seen my toast?
$5.00 reward for the recovery of my lost toast.
My toast has been subsumed by a viscous batter of egg and milk.
The batter is viscous, and might as well say it: the batter is vicious.
The batter has viciously taken away my pain, but it hasn't taken away my pain.
My pain is gone.
I am pained to say, my pain is gone.
© 2009, 2011 bree_zip
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Death and Birth
Dream last night:
I'm with my mom. We're both naked. We're walking through a botanical garden. The entire ground or floor of the garden is covered in a gelatinous, translucent green goo, and we are sloshing through it with our bare feet. Mom tells me I've been here before, many times, but I remember only one visit as a teenager. She says we used to come here when I was a little kid, but I don't recall it. It seems familiar in a distant way.
The room starts filling with water, up to and over our heads. We're bobbing, swimming through, and then get released into another room, dry, all the water drained out, the floors and walls are all white. We're still naked, but more conspicuous walking around. I'm aware, self-conscious, but still calm. I try to put on a pair of shorts; they're made of sheer plastic, like packing film. Mom recedes deeper into the room.
I'm with my mom. We're both naked. We're walking through a botanical garden. The entire ground or floor of the garden is covered in a gelatinous, translucent green goo, and we are sloshing through it with our bare feet. Mom tells me I've been here before, many times, but I remember only one visit as a teenager. She says we used to come here when I was a little kid, but I don't recall it. It seems familiar in a distant way.
The room starts filling with water, up to and over our heads. We're bobbing, swimming through, and then get released into another room, dry, all the water drained out, the floors and walls are all white. We're still naked, but more conspicuous walking around. I'm aware, self-conscious, but still calm. I try to put on a pair of shorts; they're made of sheer plastic, like packing film. Mom recedes deeper into the room.
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