Monday, August 16, 2010

Too tired to title

xi. a.

I burnt down a small forest

I walked in a blizzard of pain

I wish you were here to tell me stuff

oh what the hell, I just lay down

I made waves when the sea was still
I stormed into the rooms
My hands don't work
I hate it that my hands don't work

the turtles heard me and they ran
all over the world little doves cried
You're not supposed to say that

There's too much noise and it's mostly mine

Aaagh who cares

Our eyes were branded by the news

Surely goodness and mercy reign

I wish you were here to tell me stuff

There's too much noise

but it's mostly...mine

This is the first of three versions of the "I burnt down a small forest" poem, xi. a, b and c.
Please don't ask me why. Maybe burning down small forests requires more than the usual attention. I don't know, I can't remember. I did give away a bunch of matches to my family today. No, I am not an arsonist, just a very incompetent consumer.


  1. These poems (and your prose) feel like you. It's so nice to have a bit of you on my computer screen. I love and miss you.

  2. Ditto, dear skully. Someone told me that we might see you soon. True, perhaps? Until, love and love.