Genre of Eat
when the mind won't stop and the words come out wrong
I force you out
Agita
squirming worms at high velocity
trapped behind eyeballs
I can see you pacing.
You seethe about rain on nettles
I’m drawn to the wholesome shape
you let them occupy
intact spikes filled with glow girl aesthetics
no longer tack-y to h i t c h onto coats
of pass-ing animals
moving toward the borderlands
Spikes, the illusionist
is an Indian rhinoceros
She wears heavy armor on the shoulders
and trunk
Go for the underbelly- says the Komodo Dragon
The message rumbles low
from Indonesia
His secrets s s surpass e s his cares
Fiddle Leaf watches the fly rub
its antennae, furious
glee over leftovers-
horse manure
Steam rises from the teapot
pressure valve releases
a long yowling hiss rips my mind
o p e n
to plug the little bits of grey matter
back
into my mouth
dried splatters of diet coke inside wrinkly gum tops
a silver tin-
sweet juice-y s l e e p
a pair of raucous red lips
round an’ round a carousel
bloody knuckle bone
grinding daisy lights
headlamps tossed in Neapolitan pizza
this genre of sleep
***
Tres nights
Tres leche cake
three
What are w o r d s?
***
But. Minced. Meat.
***
It's
homeo-stasis
stat-istics
static...
About the Creator
Michele Nampalli
This space is breath for my sensitivity. The poems come fully formed. I've known for quite some time now that my art is about receiving more than creation...its the most natural way I know to process my inner world. It started when I was 7.
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More stories from Michele Nampalli and writers in Poets and other communities.
At My Wits’ End
Life is about taking out the trash and calling it trash because you have every reason to. It wasn't meant to be linear, they say. But the times you tried to make it straight led to problems, and you didn’t have the tools to put any of it to use. You don't put your right shoes on the right feet; you put the left shoes on the left feet. The grey hardened slab will trip you up anyway.
By Caitlin Charlton5 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
This gives me such a chaotic feel. Some of this mental imagery is downright uncomfortable, almost to make me recoil or feel anxious. The stuff about the fly especially. But that may just be my bug-phobia taking over. Still, the poem as a whole impressed me. Your word choice is always too notch which is ironic given your sub title. I don’t think the words came out wrong here. But you’ve definitely painted a surreal collection of mental images. I get the scattered or broken feeling I think you were going for through the poem as a whole, but the word choice still feels precise such that each line feels deliberate, effective, and worth it. Yet you still manage conjure up feelings about a very particular sort of strain. I have post concussive syndrome and have a lot of difficulty with word finding. Tough as a writer. There are times I know there’s a specific word I want to use but for the life of me I cannot figure out what it is. There’s this frustration where I push but my brain just doesn’t do it. your opening line and one of your ending lines resonates with this feeling and this frustration (I force you out/ what are words anyway). Great poem.