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sometimes my history lecturers forget things.

July 22, 2012

 

The lecture theatre is swimming in nausea

I want to put shells on my ears

and listen to the  whirling of silence

like a small  child

 

the air is a thick soup

and the voices are curdling round my throat

eating into my body like vines

and the voices are swirling

 

But not in your stories

The voices are not in your stories

In your stories it is all a game

There are men there are shiny corridors

there are bodies heads vaginas

in your stories there are

little jokes and exam content but

there are no voices.

 

jesus jesus jesus

just stop it I don’t feel like  laughing anymore

i don’t think you should be wearing a tie.

If you could hear the screaming

feel the way warm blood clings to fingers

you would tell it differently

 

this isn’t history.

In the middle of the night behind the

flickering drone of the streetlights

behind transparent  curtains and the condensation on the window

There are still bodies swaying on the breeze.

 

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2 Comments
  1. Claire Duffy permalink

    Cool poem. Would you consider sending it to Windmills for publication? words@deakin.edu.au Windmills is a literary zine edited by postgraduate students at Deakin University in Geelong, Victoria.

  2. Brian permalink

    I often come back to read your poetry on this blog, Chrissy. I think it is because at times I resonate very strongly with it.

    I’ve been reading your poem (Bend, motherfucker, bend.) quite a bit over the past week. I am in Burundi conducting a food security and gender assessment. Your poetry helps capture some of what I feel when returning to full meals and a fancy hotel after spending some time doing interviews in the field, full of contrast, ambiguity, and hypocrisy.

    If you have more poetry, or another blog, please consider sharing the link? You have been graced with talent.

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