Rude Awakenings

As promised, the second of the two poems released in Pulp Magazine this month! This poem was written in a literal sense, not long after watching a group of highly talented Slovenian poets. Another taste of my experimental poetry lies ahead, enjoy if you dare:

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Rude Awakenings

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Rude awakenings. The morning

Resembles the night. Each day filled

With the gust of bitter winds. Every

Morning, and night, like one of early

November. Less cheerful than December.

Rude mornings. The awakening of gusts

That seems like the winds at night. Morning

Which is still really night, as you sip your tea

Waiting for the light. Open fingers. From

Preparing dinner before a breakfast has been made.

Rude winds. Cold mornings, like those of December

Only less cheerful. Bleeding fingers, while

Breakfast waits. Wind whipping away the night.

Rude fingers, dinner away. Rude awakenings.