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Today I Don't Feel So Good

Today I don't feel so good,

Let me live like a man in the midst
of being hit by a bullet train,
screaming deformed last wishes
to the rails that speak in the scatter-brained ecstasy of orange sparks.

Let me wash away the grease of
money that soaks through the skin
forming obtruse deposits that replace
the marrow of each bone
until one wakes up as the sun hits first skyscrapers
in the horizon watching as the dollar rises
over your forehead, over your friends,
over your city.

Holding out for the relief of
a staring competition where I the loser
will sacrfice my eyes to be absolved into their's,
feet deserting my bodies weight, flopped
whispering from the floor,
"...and I am you, and you are me, and we are trees
or anything else we want to be,
dominos that echo every movement surrounding them."

I want to meditate
by digging my own grave in a tall grass field
burying myself then reciting every poem I have ever written
to the dirt that begins to fill my mouth,
then as it floods my vocal chamber
my saliva and it will unite:

I will speak in mud and mud will speak in me.

I want to self imolate if only to know
what it feels like to fly
as the smoke of my soggy body
reaches t'ward the clouds.
Then people will see the truth of me,
there will be cloud watchers that travel from around the world,
they might see a rabbit, a dragon...

A musician playing a snapped lute
serenading the prison walls in a rasping voice
playing the prison bars like spoons
talking to the open window he perhaps would be able fit through
if only his bones could reshape like his flesh can.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
Sometimes you need to pour bad moods into good words.
Editing stage: 


I really enjoyed the imagery and word choices of the poem. I particularly love the phrase "smoke of my soggy body". If I could suggest anything, it would be to reverse the order of "over your forehead, over your friends". I'm not exactly sure why; it just seems more logical for me. Otherwise, the only other thing I would suggest would be to delete the second instance of "prison" on the last stanza. It's wordy.

I look forward to more of your work!

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I'll totally take all of that on. I put 'forehead' prior to 'friends' because the I comes first then friends, then the city. Also I agree with the admission of prison in the last stanza. Sick, thankyouuuu. xx

author comment

If I have read this right, I found it to be representing the profile of a common man imprisoned within the walls of reality of being part of a material world and the rat race, wanting to express as long as one exists, realizing the limitations, realizing too of what one may or may not accomplish as a mortal and then possibility of becoming insignificant and feeling not good about such possible scenarios.. If I have read this right, it is a nice poetic commentary about what a common man feels. Having said that, I am not sure if my perceptions were right, yet what I perceived did make me pause and reflect. Your style of expression is indeed worthy of appreciation. Thanks for posting this.


raj (sublime_ocean)

Thanks for clarifying you can decipher what I worked into the poem. x

author comment

Thanks for confirming that my reading of your poem was right. It could mean that I am beginning to understand such poems :)

raj (sublime_ocean)

was the use of a single sentence in each stanza. Having done this myself in the past I know how hard it is and not sound as though I were rambling.
You do not ramble.
The only thing I could suggest concerns "toward". I don't think you need the contraction as most peoples will pronounce it as a single syllable and not two which is grammatically incorrect.
It is an imaginative poem from the point of view of "layout". The content I also found intriguing.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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