Morning hum
an oscillating stir
hides its hum
under blankets
of red-blooded
self-deception
machines stuttering
on dreams
of warm meat
what is "tomorrow"
when it
wakes with
the same feeling
when it
wakes with
the same friction
when it
wakes with
a friction
that could start a fire
the taste of its truth
a dryness
in the mouth
that cannot be
extinguished
1 Comments:
Disclaimer: This has been my first attempt at giving an author's context to my work. While I think it is nice to offer (emphasis on "offer", and not forcefully "give") the reader a chance to explore the writer's perspective, I fear several things. One, I do not wish to prevent and/or destroy any uncorrupted interpretation from the reader. Thus, read at your own discretion. And secondly, because I want to share material that is extremely personal to me (i.e. there is not much I censor or edit), quoting and discussing what I write may seem somewhat pretentious, which is not my intention. So I really hope I don't give that impression about myself ... cause I'm not. With those comments aside, you're welcome to simply read only my work, or if you really want to, you're welcome to read on and get an idea what goes on in my head.
This is a poem written about the cold sterility of waking to the same day everyday. It is in the days' monotony that turns our bodies into machines "stuttering on dreams of warm meat". In this sense, our concept of "tomorrow" and its "hum" merely becomes a "red-blooded self-deception", and its friction-filled truth invokes a dry and burning "taste ... in the mouth that cannot be extinguished". The poem finishes with the suggestion that this mechanical state of being may possibly be fated for an eventual self-combustion, a self-destruction of fire.
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