Hands (A Poem Begins​.​.​.​)

from by The Grievance Club

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I'm finding that the days pass more quickly as I wait and watch
and an underlying sense of boredom when the sun drops.
Unlike Quentin C., I never wear a watch;
I don't need to hear the absence of ticking to know when sound stops.

I'm finding it straining to keep focus on photons remaining in residual light burnt out.
Ignoring phosphenes I used to chase after inside my eyes, like cat to mouse.

I feel the color in my face wearing away with time.
Slow burn,
my fingernails receding every day
I don't know why.

I'm finding a devil on my shoulder, he says inertia couldn't give a fuck about me if I ran straight into it, let it stop me in my tracks.
He told me he'll make work for idle hands.

I'm finding flatness in my voice where tone used to exist,
And plateaus where I once could've sworn on mountains.
I haven't found a way to grip and twist the knots in my path, of my design;
It makes me wonder if my hands still work anymore.


from Being of Sound Body & Unsound Mind, released August 19, 2016



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The Grievance Club Kent, Ohio

New EP "Being of Sound Body & Unsound Mind," available now.

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