The only female in the group
The one who usually talks so much
Has nothing more to say;
Not that we wouldn’t listen now –
Although no one will admit it
We’re glad she’s here if only
Because she let her hair grow so long
That it provides a place for some to warm
Themselves; or even hide their faces
From their embarrassing lack of desire
To communicate with the others.

The horned one
That little lusty little devil
Stares with horror at the limp member
He uses to stimulate himself
Into obscene acts
We've spent so long
Trying to ignore his
Constant orgiastic dance
That we don't know what
To say to him now;
What we wouldn't do to spur
Even him into action;
The stupidest among us
Must realise its his dynamism
That helps the rest of us remain
Arguing with one another.
But we're all so stunned by the
Cold shrunken thing he's become
We just don't know how to
Answer his surprise and shock.

The dynamic created by the complex relationships
Which usually allow as all to live together
In a sort of uneasy truce
Have become irrelevant
As I slowly freeze to death
Inside this little cave
Where there is usually so much action
The different parts of me
So cold now that they’ve
Become brittle and breakable
Wait for the spark
Which will light the fire
And allow the constant stream
Of arguments, indecisions,
Embarrassing conflicts of interests
To keep us all warm and in action
To relight the source of central warmth
We’ve all taken for granted
Until the freezing wind blew out
The fire and left us
Here barren, infertile and alone.

For without the spark of creativity
That lights the fire
To stimulate this uneasy truce
We will all eventually die
And this frozen group
Uneasily but desperate
In their final closeness
Will be forever silence.

Perhaps
Its for the Best
My god,
We may have tried to make
A lot of noise
But no one heard
And although each of us blame
The other for allowing the fire to go out
In the end,
It’ll all hardly matter
As this cold dead group
Of me
Will dissipate
And blow away
Without hardly
A single soul
Noticing.

Zachar Laskewicz
30 January 2015
Ghent Belgium

HUDDLING

a poem on writer's block by Zachár Laskewicz

1501-HUD