Our flow is hard by Carrie Lorig

March 23, 2011 at 8:33 pm | Posted in poem | 5 Comments

How much salt
and oil
is needed
to cut through
this part
of the street?

Blink riots
with passing strangers
our own age.

It’s a sprained
time.

It’s knives
kicking back.

We would say
nicer things,
if the room
were a different
color.

Our flow is hard.
I want to explain it
without using any
soft tissue.

We’re a different
furniture.

We’re in the
coffined clay,

listening to
the cliffs drag
their claws and

the supermoon flap
in the scentless
treadmill breeze.

This is all
just a cry for

more supercoconuticecream,
more superbedtime,

another harmfull
cigarette to speak
against a difficult
coastline.

5 Comments »

a poem by a woman about her flow? SHEESH LADIES TMI!!

Comment by I AM SHAUN GANNON— March 23, 2011 #

Reply
- no, no, no silly… that’s what THIS poem is about
  
  Comment by Carolyn DeCarlo— March 23, 2011 #
  
  Reply
haha. oh no. i didn’t even think of that.

Comment by concealandcarrie— March 23, 2011 #

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oh my oh my. i was there! this is lovely.

Comment by jared— March 23, 2011 #

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we’re a different furniture is ballin there was a really big ‘gangster’ guy on the train yesterday and was pointing at pictures in a magazine and saying “now THAT is decor” and then he went to another page and said “look at that HOUSE” and his friend was shaking his head saying “nah what r u talkin bout” i felt good watching (possibility of drug-related intoxication implied here)

Comment by crispin— March 24, 2011 #

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