As Is What Was is a collection of poems created with no thought at all. None. There is no control over grammar, sound, rhythm, idea, or anything really. Why? I thought it would be fun. Is it insane? Absolutely.
What brick amounts to much
Can it sound enough
Be round enough
To actually take shape?
The wear and tear
The cracks in the extremities
Place themselves in ways
That deceive the eye
Oh the high flying sediments
The ones that prefer to sit on wind
Sometimes settle unknowingly
The ways are far too complex for any sentient form to comprehend
Much less grasp in the palm of their –
Not every sentient form has hands after all
Nah, if that little brick went to the market
Who knows what sort of ruckus it could have caused?
In your usual Tolstoyan fashion –
not to be confused with the movement
– one can only imagine the way it shift the world ever so slightly
Though let’s face it. It’s far simpler to say
“Fuck it. It’s a brick. Throw it.”
One thought on “#77 Brick”
Liked . Provoked reflection