Thursday, October 1, 2009

Prose Poem: Eileen Sullivan

Epic Mimicry and Studied Elegance

Too late to write. Too early to sleep. Too tired to talk. Too wired to stop. My night drifts into your day. Guitar too heavy to lift. Songs too hard to hear. The bed beckons, one side bursting from the wealth of books, the other empty, expecting my acceptance, my shallow shuddering breathing. And all we know is what we learned, and what we learned is all we know. We know it all except the secrets of our hearts. We live and pose, facsimile, until the feeling starts. One hears words, another a song. Both a dirge and somehow wrong. And the moon looks on at the fools, its laughter ripples the heavens, waves of undulating mirth that never reach the earth.


Matthew Mumford said...

I spent ten minutes creating an account to tell you I thought the piece was fantastic. It captures the nights quite well, how quiet corners can scream as they peer across the room at you, as even without a mirror you can feel yourself being watched while you're alone, from up above, from all around. More than the pace, which I thought was great, I really enjoyed the sound.

Eileen Sullivan said...

Thanks, Matthew. I realise this is quite delayed gratitude, but no less sincere for my tardiness. I'm so glad you liked the sound, which was really what I as going for, inspired as he piece was by a poet friend who is also a songwriter and a wizard with language. You understand the insomniac quality of the piece well. Again, many thanks.