Fill in the blanks 2
So, I couldn’t leave the second prompt alone. Here is my take on the Walid Bitar poem. Even weirder than the previous one!
From inside great drums
From inside great drums (don’t call them skins)
tomorrow is smaller than usual,
as are the goats. Inside great drums,
unlike horns, are not valves
and the people ripe enough
to pick (at least the crop isn’t small)
have no feet or features when they sit beside
their twins and twinsets, pretending
to be kumquats in a cold climate. The scenery
sharpens like an icepick in my ear.
It skritches itself, and I taste of this
a cupcake you can colour with the whites
and marbles of schoolboys back home, cut cake otherwise
invisible as the price of gods.
An ache, too, is invisible; why are
you feeding it at your back door, growing
it into an ending?
Leave it alone; sing me a little to
the stars; people turn their heads
into black holes here; I
remain (on the outside) accreting.