Slap

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Listen Here

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What good is it to have a belly if there’s no fire in it? Wake up, drink your passion, light a match and get to work.

Simon Sinek

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Photo by Danny Lines on Unsplash

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Slap

It pours in.
Ginger slaps throat in the turmeric of belief.
Tongue tied, candling 
the incense into smoky palate
burning down the swallowing musk 
of mystery
in a propagated plunge of peristalsis.
Stomach in the silence of a sudden on stun 
catches the stoop of gravity swirl like a foul tip 
funnelled off of a swinging bat.
Hatchet has just cut through the bone 
of meaning as - a punch 
into the guts
of understanding
in the speechless gasp 
of being
knocked on ass.

© Jamie Millard

I want to be ripped open by something that I read. Knocked on my ass. By the sounds. By the metaphors. Poetry is what poetry brings. I want it to bring the fire.
Poetry is what poetry does. I want it to make me bleed.
I want to take that blood and turn it into ink! As I write,
I want to be surprised by my own discovery.

I want to struggle into the words. I want to breathe and gasp in the ineffable spaces around them. I want them to come through me. Waking me in the night and slapping me in the face. I want that process to swallow me whole. Even if it takes years.
That’s poetry. That’s healing. That’s fucking living.

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May your creativity set your soul on fire!
Thanks for Being-Here,

Lots of Love,

Jamie