Andrew Motion wrote the poem “What If?” to decorate the side of a building. Click here to see it.
Here’s a poem that is ripe for the side of a building, maybe mental institution, or the DMV:
but what of thoughts,
eyes, sadness now
all my gazes down
I’m baring crowns and crosses
scars tossed off, start off crotches
blots in splotches of ink
on lobbed coffins.
dance and jiggleman
caught by the town posse
they frown ’cause he
marches off to a sound all his own.
Like he owns sound
when the march is off
crib and the astronaut,
lab-let me go,
bad rest, rest of them
sleep like troughs.
Sweat is like regrets when it drips;
the acid acid spike stripe,
the pregnant pregnant laugh like
a wife living a half-life,
who’s mad right? The mad hatter,
or the mag-light?
who the flash shine?
Here’s another poem (in laymen’s English this time, not my poom-talk) (p.s. – a poom(n.) is a poem that goes boom):
my many voices will strangle me
rushing my throat; a gate crowd, clutching the bars.
Rattling chains, they don’t know
to go is to enter. And entries are moments lost.
They strip my mind of body-paint
for the naked world.
Why am I splotching the elephant in the room
crimson, if only for blind men?
They entertain, are pathetic showmen:
And I said oranges, only oranges
because I’ll flicker and dally,
out-flying logic like a comet,
I justify like smoke-tails.
Close my eyes, and current
electric from my finger-tips
as lightning rods; but my voices,
my faux-remedial manic, will strangle me.
They are spit-takes, prodding
water droplets; poking maya —
from beyond me, awe
I can’t turn off.