faster than the silence of drawing rooms and
round-clock miles of second-hand tick tock
faster than metro music beat blurring past
a stand-still jeepney
faster than rush hour and
flickering shadow plays in 5:30 summer sun
faster than speeding bullets of light
in nightscape
faster than caffeine
even faster than ten-second nicotine
green, red, and sickening yellow
kaleidoscoping
slivers of broken glass
lodged in trenches of thought
unable to hemorrhage.
* * * * * * * *
please answer this question:
what the fuck is she trying to say?
but really, i think it says what i mean, but it didn't come out right. yeah, yeah, rilke said don't ask others about what they think of your poetry, but he's dead, i'm alive, and definitely not the reincarnation of rilke, so if you could please tell me if it's ugly or if you think it isn't done or if there's something wrong, come on people, don't be shy, click on 'post a comment' and type in pages, if you like. thank you.
and by the way, i hate the title.