weary discipline
Posted to Poetry
by Tim Cunningham on 2002-02-28 01:55:00
each conveyed message
is countered by a host
of silent images
nervous pupils,
raped by the salty
edge of spontaneous transpiration
peer into kaleidoscopic rooms
Me, glass in the hand,
he, sticky crisps,
she, ferocious attacks on
being sober,
another drink soon to follow
there I stood,
pretending the ugly,
olive-painted walls,
tackled my imagination
an enigma, and I try
not to think of distraction,
while eagerly praying
for a sudden fire,
combustible elements
such as curtains and humans
spark this emerging thought
a reason to leave and
not return
