darkflavor

I made a few mistakes regarding my work yesterday and which ruined my entire night. So I quit my own job for the night! I ended up sipping brandy and watching X-Files until four in the morning. Those episodes where rather surreal and consisted of an intricate plot surrounding the black oil. Of course, the episodes are all out of sequence and there are large gaps in my memory, so I have no idea what happened before or what occurs next.

I have been reading a lot of poetry lately and getting quite a kick from it. For instance, here below is a humorous, anti-romantic poem that is written with a sardonic tone. Upon reading it I get the impression of an average or typical man trying desperately to build a home. The narrator who appears to be the writer himself fails miserably at this project and hate the entire endeavor. He has sacrificed himself in order to complete his project.
Now this poet has succeeded in this poem because it touches and recreates a feeling that I too have experienced in my lifetime: the agony and distress of doing dishes.

Love Song: I and Thou
By Dugan, Alan

Nothing is plumb, level or square:
the studs are bowed, the joists
are shaky by nature, no piece fits
any other piece without a gap
or pinch, and bent nails
dance all over the surfacing
like maggots. By Christ
I am no carpenter. I built
the roof for myself, the walls
for myself, the floors
for myself, and got
hung up in it myself. I
danced with a purple thumb
at this house-warming, drunk
with my prime whiskey: rage.
Oh I spat rage’s nails
into the frame-up of my work:
It held. It settled plumb.
level, solid, square and true
for that one great moment. Then
it screamed and went on through,
skewing as wrong the other way.
God damned it. This is hell,
but I planned it I sawed it
I nailed it and I
will live in it until it kills me.
I can nail my left palm
to the left-hand cross-piece but
I can’t do everything myself.
I need a hand to nail the right,
a help, a love, a you, a wife.

-1961