I haven’t said much
I want to be reasonable
Fill an age without poetry
Where words are framed without metaphor.

These words, they are unpredictable-
more inclined, less focused
And now I am here, thinking about you
In the late winter

It’s cold and 6pm
My two girls already asleep beside me
Breath while I tap words into being

They may wake soon
then go back to sleep while
I lie
head on one hand and grappling

Tapping with middle and index finger
like notes on an organ
And I am playing, kind of

There is no poetry really
It’s not about you either
I don’t know what to say
The words won’t unfold

I’m curling, embryonic, choked on life
Surprised, In the dark hour
typing this moment down
and knowing
mistakes are predicted automatically

The predictions are worse than the mistakes
I write “colk” instead of “cold” and the prediction is “folk”
It seems more wrong
When the first letter is taken away

These modern instruments have applications
but lack intuition:
They feel nothing
They don’t think (not really)

They’re machines that make connections
but never laugh with friends
Or cry alone in the night

They never suffer their deficiencies
Confuse desires
Or wish their existence were different

They never experience 12 years of age
Or 28, or London
They never become dads

Or sons
Or friends who stands on the precipice
They never celebrate victory

Or regret it
And with all of these memories
Will we be afraid to remember how it was?

[Description: Description: Evan Maloney – July 2010 – 75%]



Joined November 2012

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