Thursday, March 24, 2011
Carbon Dating
I put a wood cinder in my mouth
and it tasted like shoe-polish meringue.
I tried to chew it and it felt
like my teeth had gone off-road
into a ditch of powdered glass.
The aroma of a gutted bedroom;
of paint chemical recycled
into the dangerously edible,
gave way to the thick air of the valley
from where the wood was harvested.
Fire had deforested the room
and loosened its black topsoil
revealing nails and copper wires.
What was in my mouth had become
some new type of mortar,
and when I spat it on the ground,
it bubbled and furred in the charred
floorboards, and crawled away
like a snail.
I put a wood cinder in my mouth
and it tasted like shoe-polish meringue.
I tried to chew it and it felt
like my teeth had gone off-road
into a ditch of powdered glass.
The aroma of a gutted bedroom;
of paint chemical recycled
into the dangerously edible,
gave way to the thick air of the valley
from where the wood was harvested.
Fire had deforested the room
and loosened its black topsoil
revealing nails and copper wires.
What was in my mouth had become
some new type of mortar,
and when I spat it on the ground,
it bubbled and furred in the charred
floorboards, and crawled away
like a snail.
// posted by George Manka @ 2:55 PM 
