Fireworks popping off underneath skin,an explosions against the brickwork.Blood so bright it burns my retinasand when I dreamed I can see it,the splash, the sizzle of colour.My own fists tight as un-popped corks deep in my dressing gown pockets,buried under lint and hidden things,like the sound of bone crackon plasterboard,always plasterboard,this fuse pulled taught between my shouldersunlitand your face so dark with thunderthe crash of it in a plate on the kitchen floor,slowly starts to clear. I feel like I need to preface this poem with the fact that it is not a description of a real event, or specifically based on one real individual. We’ve had sporadic fireworks for the last couple of weeks, so if anything, those are the main source of inspiration. Right with that out of the way, here’s an audio recording of the poem, and a note to say go and check out the rest of the poems written for tonight’s DVersePoets sound prompt.
There is someone juggling fireworks. Somewhere beyond these fields. There is someone juggling fireworks while I was curled cool and content beneath the weight of blankets with books to read. There is someone juggling fireworks now the rain has stopped. There is someone juggling fireworks now the wind has dropped. There is someone juggling fireworks in the calm after heat. There is someone juggling fireworks who’s pulled me back from sleep. There is someone juggling fireworks. Sporadic, out of sync. Who is juggling fireworks upon a country-side at peace. A quick free-write poem on a lovely cool Saturday night.