Sonnet 33
- This comfort is too belonging,
- This maestro of unrequited fear,
- This bolster of inanimiteness,
- This tubby marshmallow of sneer.
- This unsettling lack of disruption,
- This banter, sequenced and derived,
- This caricature of theme-park variety,
- This bastion of suburban (probably) alive.
- This caste, this mast, this fasting from funk,
- This marinating session in yesterday's junk,
- This ration, this calm, this station, this warm,
- This ardor for cozy, contentment, norm.
- This this, this thistle needs to prick
- That prattle into an effervescent crick.
Notes
Day after Christmas, feeling agitated and ambitious like I typically do after the holiday. In this brief period between family time and the new year, my head usually veers into multi-worldly slants, mostly out of confusion, partially out of resolve, hopefully into some zeal. All for a new year's setup.
I've had an awkward soundtrack the past few weeks. Some combination of Purple Ferdinand's "Wasn't Taught to Love", gLAdiator's "Assembly Line", and this "Breakfast" joint. My face contorts as each song starts accordingly. No revealing explanation as to why this is pertinent, it just is.
Beyond that, only realizing now how much I love the word "crick". SO GOOD.
— Huy on