In a brown hotel room my heart still beats.
I flushed a small black fly down the loo;
it swirled and gurgled, floats like a dot.
(I may flick it out from predictable spin
recover it pointlessly) like memories
laid kicking and insect-like, slowly turning.
Years ago I saw a huge bug battle for life;
a bluebottle whizzed on its back interminably.
But for now I recycle time, rotating words,
on reclaimed paper with recycled ink.
Outside, cars hum; remaking a buzzing
of insects as life-blood - now fuel, and oil.
Everything rotates (except while tears blub
or eyes flash or sweat breaks:) when I smile at a truth.
Hi John, I find this poem strangely addictive with a peculiar ambience. I've read it at least 5 times already. I particularly like: "In a brown hotel room my heart still beats." "rotating words, on reclaimed paper with recycled ink." and "Everything rotates (except while tears blub or eyes flash or sweat breaks:) when I smile at a truth."
ReplyDeleteI also like it's...honesty – I suppose would be the word – where you haven't shied away from what one could say are "non-poetic" words, like loo, whizzed and blub, possibly gurgled.
Write on! :-)