Under the Rock (Poetic Prose)
What is hidden in the unconscious and cannot be found in the dictionary, it might be wise to leave buried under the rock (to rot, motionlessly).
We are not cats; we do not have nine-lives (we can break like porcelain).
I have left many things under that rock of mine: halos, devils, old friends, pearls or experiences—and expressions.
The rock has an abdomen, I’ve noticed (believe it or not): with spirit and appetite (eyes that open, adjust to its environment), looking for who can offer it a sunny day.
(Oil the spring to the door, in case you have to run, once it clicks, your stuck.)
#1730 3-12-2007
Moth and the Mind
At night, the unconscious revives the mind, plants powerful images, shadows for the curious conscious to figure out, once woken up in the morning (perhaps too dreadful, too frightful to paint a perfect picture of).
Now the dusty room is empty, pure black nothingness—the moths want to come in, attack the dark mist, suck dry the chamber walls, while in a state of mania (and they try to); then the organic gases drown the moths, to a stupor: thus, as night befalls the mind again, new shadows, images start coming in—no room for the moths again.
#1731 3-21.2007
[A Note on Prose Poetry:] The prose poem is usually made-up with more wit than rime in it, so it has been by the master pieces, and master poets, in the past; the lines involved are not usually all that important.
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
Source: www.isnare.com
