Danny Gentile #6

He has talked me into the grave.

A seething spurt of consciousness 

now has me divided. Don't know

when or where to make beginning

nor end. Simply lie in the padded

formula of the regurgitated mind

the body aching and footsore from

the very beginning. Shovel up each

piece of some fallen attitude and

heap it over me. Leaf through pages

of the body that arrive and arrive.

I plagiarise myself in memories that

revive and roll over me in a book 

I've written so many times again. Let

sympathy roll over in it's useless 

balm. Rub it in with fingers like pen-

knives. Guide it into harder harder

rubbing. It is all somehow held inside

the deeper body and so I deprive

myself of even the smallest surety 

risen from the bone so to rise again.

Deprivation is the quarter of land

on which I lie and it can never be fed

simply reduced to a bowl of sympathy.

2am 7/8/2016