this is the folder on my computer where I keep all the poems I am writing. they are bad. nothing of value is commemorated here, etc. leave me alone. how did you even get onto my computer in the first place?
1
Fatal attraction
They build palaces
Upon those tables
I always thought
Eyes traveling,
Within them strange reflection
What Romance works
Without a sound
Romantic chess- an artistic movement popular in chess in the 18th and 19th centuries
Was fatal attraction a game played in the romantic era?
No. oops. Ok.
Within them strange reflection
Brilliance, held in momentary precision (?)
Without a sound
Does anyone even want to read a poem about an old chess game?
I would. Who doesn’t want the things I want? I’m basically always right.
It feels like falling,
It feels like flying if
You can sustain it–
Too cliche?
Hmm ok. So it’s been three days and I haven’t finished this poem but I HAVE read a lot of wikipedia pages about how the British government was structured in the 19th century.
2
Geography of a bedroom
Neat rows of nail polish bottles
Form strange forests
Dappled by the light through blinds
On dresser cliff faces
A beck, a spring, of wood-grain
Flooding into a sea of blue carpet
Stacks of papers on the desk
It’s stilt-feet raising steady current
It carries books and pens sewing machines
upon it’s sturdy back
It forms plateaus
It sounds
[write something here, future Ronan]
3
Surgery
I think that I could break some Chord
Trace unbroken line
Across your skin
Could, in moving, heal, in beauty,
Break
Through sternum and past ribs
Into the reddest part of you
Futures, and histories, tucked away
For moments
That bleeding star that never stops
And never stops
And I blink
Pulling the line,
Threading through narrow streets.
I will,
In resolution, find you,
In holding, heal.
What if I wrote a poem ABOUT wikipedia rabbit holes?
The voyage (?)
Alone, in my city of tubes–
That sounds stupid. This was a bad idea.