Black Coffee

"On page eleven I found a poem titled 'Florida Dawn'. I skipped down through image after image about water-melon lights and turtle-green palms and shells fluted like bits of Greek architecture.
'Not bad.' I thought it was awful." Sylvia Plath

I wrote a couple of weeks ago that I'd avoid the bitter poetry that makes reading blogs like this an exercise in inanity. I intend to break that promise as quickly as I've made it. As before, a great deal of this means nothing - some of it does, but that shouldn't get in the way of reading it. I've spent the last week pretending to sell phones, secreting away a copy of 1984, and abysmally attempting to gain weight. So far I've lost 1.5kg - success. For those that expected something better than badly written poetry: Jimi Hendrix. For those curious about the blog title: The Seatbelts.

'Pressed up against the beetle
Alone in the dark electric box;
Turning out Labyrinthian explanations
For the mangled mass of Skinner flesh.'

'Blame the pretension of enjoyment

On this sudden onset of depressive anxiety;
Confirmation, affirmation
Proselytizing, analysing;
Throwing words out without the rhyme or reason
Of a madman walking to the gallows
To deliver his final vapid verse
Plucked straight out of Corinthians and a scribbled toilet curse.'

'Laying flint against the mettle;

Lighting spark after spark of fizzled fury
Fortuitous meandering verse
From mental stone plucked
As meaningless as gravel
That lines the path
And leads straight
To the manure at the rose’s verge.' 

Pulchritude

'Where is the beauty in your heart
Which sees the world through fickle eyes
And turns a love to vapid lies.
Where the lascivious kiss
Was nothing but a lecher’s wish;
Or a once romantic day
Nothing but a children’s play.

Where is the beauty in your soul?
Directed by such terminable desires
That used to ignite the midnight fires
And are now empty at the core;
The fruit that Adam spurned and Eve then turned
Rotten evermore.'

Missive Missed

'What is it?
What do you hope to find
By clawing at the head of some poor wretch
To find memories that a heart couldn’t etch;
Dragging at the clasp of some mental latch
Spinning off words that simply will not catch.

What is it?
What do you hope to find
To break a masochistic soliloquy
So that you could ramble with brevity;
Not once, not twice – not three times or four
Not again will it cross my lips,
Not ever, anymore.'