Tessa, When Life Feels Like An Aquarium

I imagine chairs, and razor sharp talk,
literary as hell. Hipster poets?
Gray-haired ones but who knows.
Erudite, embittered yet gay,
philosophic, part of a social order
that’s not mine.

We’re all sitting on grass, anyway.
Me watching insects. I know who’s
facetious, or not. With a despotic air,
bespectacled, the speaker does
the summing up. Clean-cut, coz
they are Asians.

The sky was bluish. Someone behind
snickered. Brushing the lushness
underfoot, holding a wine glass,
it’s cocktail hour so everyone’s making
small talk. No witchcraft here;
it’s what being civilised’s about.

Prompt: Is October gonna be awesome? My favorite month, you won’t let me down will you? You already have you know. My heart is bluish. Feeling so out of it.
Kinda like hitting rock bottom. So I’m wary of social circles. They’re like permeable barriers that one pushes through and then pushes out of. Human connections are helluva complicated. Fragile’s the word. You wish it’s like the threads will connect and strengthen into a kind of rope. And then the rope hangs someone. You maybe. Now you know how morbid happens. What to do? Write a poem describing some scene, fictional or otherwise. Words are like paint, so paint a scene to distill a feeling. For example, like this:

i.
Grass is being cut
along the verge
of the main road.

Every once in a while
workmen give the ground
a good shave.

The air becomes an acrid tang
the colour of green.
Blades of unkempt grass
flick like shrapnel
in the wake
of the grass-cutters’
trim and hum.

ii.
When I was young
the whirling blades were real
and steel and would
snarl and snap
at a wayward child
as well as grass.

Now the grass is
groomed quietly
and softly pruned and lapped
into neatness
with plastic thread
like pliant curlers.

iii.
Even as these lines
fall behind me
the grass will resume
its intractable invasion
of the verges

while the days
that are left
fall and fall away
from the hard edge
blade after blade
like cut grass.

–Alvin Pang, “grass cutting”

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