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Post by Ivan Carswell on Feb 16, 2008 2:24:55 GMT -5
This soul is malnourished, cries in cambered sleep of gap-tooth hunger pangs, stern visions steep in drear whirlpools of bare-bones dreams shattered, littering
drained and dourly silent settling pans. There is no cataract gleaming, no scent lingering in redolent air, no food for thought or hint of it, no bend to an ugly track.
It is the end of an effete innuendo, a shamefully bleak act of selfishness – there is no room here for that beast – omnivorous, egoistic, caricature me.
I see with a soul weak from self-deprecation; to be free I must release the bonds of hubristic delusion – there is no sustenance afforded me in this serving dish of illusion.
Farewell fools, I came to sup with thee in belief we could feed each other but we are mules; leeches feed and givers give while starvation eats our hearts for others’ glory. © 23 July 2007, I.D. Carswell
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Post by jimcrawford on Feb 22, 2008 23:47:25 GMT -5
My kind of poem, Ivan. You never once turned away for hope, unless it's implied in your exit. Is there an escape clause for your subject?
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Post by Ivan Carswell on Feb 25, 2008 1:36:08 GMT -5
Jim, perhaps I turned away as a caricature - the real me is still in business!
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