intolerable interminable silences walling up from the half places to be watched, to fill up the crooks, crooked nooks, nothing. the light, pure, filtered through striations of impurities splashing like an infected gash across the face. open sore. the noises of its silence. a drowning drinking silent noise like the moment before an orchestra crashes into a denture.
Jonathan K.
7/16/2011 01:31:11 am
Are these poems or what? They sound almost like poems.
brian
7/16/2011 12:25:43 pm
i suppose you could consider them poems since they have certain elements in common with poetry. or you might not want to call them poems since they lack other elements. i don't really think of them as one thing or another, but perhaps that matters. how does the naming of a thing affect its reception? Comments are closed.
|
AuthorI write short stories. This is my blog. I'm going to write whatever. Archives
October 2014
Categories
All
|