Of My Ego

Poem By Indigo Hawkins

I could ask what it means to be clean, to scrub and scrub
and scrub and scrub and scrub and fall asleep scrubbing.

I smell of machines, of wet droning plastic: staid
reproductions of humiliation I fling into the washing.

From pores, for amours, with snores, I know disgust
is a defense mechanism, automatic, anachronistic.

I want nothing of this. I imagine walking into a river.
I chomp on the bistre cavern of a rotting apple.

I wake up wanting wood betany and pass the day
borrowing from frost, heightening my inaccessibility.

Needing to relinquish my contempt but not knowing how,
I douse it with eruptions of indiscriminate kindness.

Later, I lie awake and listen to whispered maledictions,
swatches of shadow preserved into spring.

Comments about Of My Ego

There is no comment submitted by members.


Rating Card

5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of HAWKINS

Benediction

'Let the love of harlots be sanctified.' ~unknown woman

When you come to me, realize I behest
no edifice. Love me in a gutter

Bystander

“Oh my God.” A murmur of disbelief
pierces the ruckus in the room
quirky lips draw downward, a grim
ghoul maligning a jubilant face

I Will Be A Story

I.
the day began as a mirage.
dressed in the garb of a wise king,
i dab frankincense on my wrists

I Am Afraid Of Churches

I read the bible for the poetry and for
the love, or at least I did before
I became afraid of churches.
My fear of them stems

Double Helix

adenine:
crushed diatoms, sea salt, juniper, driftwood,
sunburn, windburn, rap and indie rock, clean snow,
may beetle, cinnamon, cloves, gingerbread, campfire crackles,

Heap Of Random Images

-There is no Why.-
wet walnuts, mellow daffodils
sozzled
a vat of cider simmering psalms