for what point is there in arguing
or mourning aloud, if we cannot
hear the sounds of our own voices.
cursed is that noisy noisy highway
that winds through our dreams
through our waking moments
that autobahn of memories and
of metaphors, unsuffocatable.
we hear Everything else -
hinges of our mouths when we eat,
the waterfalls of our gullets when
we swallow cute pillows of water.
the flat tyres of our hearts begging
to stop and rest. our pasts from
where we murdered them and tried
in vain to hide their corpses,
and our futures from where they
inter and disinter themselves?
if we listen well enough we can hear
electricity, flowing and seeping
through plastic intestines, and the hic
cupping of heat upon our skins. but
never our own voices, silent movies,
sneaking back into the projector, ashamed.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.