Fever Toast


The water broke in past the walls,
And smashed onto the table tops, drowning flowers and shattering vases,
And as your eyes hid behind your parted fingers, curling into the corners of your couch,
Fetal and grey, lonely with static sounds in your flooded ear.
The matchboxes descended from atop the fridge,
And the calendars hanging on the adjacent wall crinkled within the moment,
Slowly, magically, vanishing into the airy fizzes that came off an empty bottle of milk that opened in fair mistake.
Soon, you awakened to dry land, furniture parched of smiles,
And bed sheets wryly writhing in unmade ways.
You don’t say anything.  
Headed a street, vacancy occupying the conversations,
Memories still flowering in a brain gunning against runny desires.
All dreams are delivered to you in your sleep,
And you don’t say anything, because you’re still impartial of time to come.

Hoping to come off the boundaries, and whispering to disillusioned park benches,
That hope flakes on your skin, frailly dances across each synapse,
Binding each conclusion in measurements of consequences,
And setting you apart, sailing you across,
to happy, and softly lit lands of film festivals,
and clocks, and chocolates,
Between minutes of life and love and death.

Published by

Watt

It's all a matter of rust and shine, to serve a distinction between to have and to have not.

25 thoughts on “Fever Toast”

  2. I must have woken to read this, Poet, ready for my fever toast breakfast. I see you have lost nothing of your native verve

    And yes, I have noted a change: in tone. I like the recognition that not all dreams should be expressed in words and that sometimes nothing should be said about them so that life continue unperturbed. At least on the surface.

    The piece is not tilted either to pessimism or to a happy giddiness and I am glad of this. I may be imagining this but I don’t think so and I am happy for that because this kind of balance, just observing with a certain neutrality allows people to breathe. (So many people are shouting any more).

    Allowing people to breathe opens up just a huge future for your words. So glad.

    It is before dawn but I hope I make sense, Poet. I shan’t say I have missed you because your former words have no more left me than the poems of my Young life….

    Sarah

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    1. That is very nice to hear, Sarah! I agree vehemently, more space suffices more air for thought, and if, as you say, I have been able to be certain yet leave room for interrogation and interpretation, than surely there is much more knowledge to investigate in life’s progression.

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  6. I agree with Bojana. 🙂 I remember wandering around looking for a lost object in a woods somewhere, feeling like I was losing my mind, several weeks ago, and one of your kind comments came through the ether, just at that moment. Still grateful.

    The first six lines, plus especially, “Memories still flowering in a brain gunning against runny desires.” Feel like I have lived those, and like you’ve momentarily brought them to full bloom here… as Ash Douglas said, you’re a wizard of words.

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      1. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel confident, Watt, but I hope so, and it feels a lot better now, and once again your kindness means a lot. Thank you 🙂 🙃 😌❤︎

        Liked by 1 person

  7. It’s the last phrase that pulls this together for me “Between minutes of life and love and death.” So much happens within those minutes, which seem to punctuate this piece, washing over the table, and the furniture in a cleansing torrent toward the happier place of soft light, film festivals and chocolate. It’s beautiful. And really nice to read your writing again.

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