the colour of our lives

poetry • celebration • faith • nature • humanity • imperfections • glory


a work in progress
my fear of knives is as reasonably based as my mistrust of God or man

Holding the shining culinary blade
gingerly, avoiding
the imaginary, painless first slice of skin,
muscle, sinew;
the decelerating scoring of bone
stopping everything like
a conversational slap or faux pas.
my anxiously foreseen hazard
redoubles with flooding panic;
dropped steel’s honed edge
cartwheels, a gravity-powered dervish,
past lower body parts
with the merest of margins. I do not
know what to say or do
in such a situation.
Blood wells; drips warm in thickening
flows from dissected flesh; elsewhere,
it pounds in adrenaline-spiked vessels,
louder than insistent self-denigration,
clearer than an imagined sneer



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2 thoughts on “slice

  1. G.R. on said:

    Holey moley! The focussed imaginings, the graphic dangers, the colors!
    When Fear itself meets real threats. Yikes! sharp sharp sharp
    I’ve got it..a half a valium before entering into the kitchen
    Thanx for setting a pretty good dream
    and taking me in

  2. Thanx G.R. -you’re altogether kind in your review. I’m going through a darker phase right now, it’s good to get it out there (rather than in here, festering)…

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