My crave is hunger
hard as granite — carved with sin,
it’s dark and cellar-dank
My crave is heavy:
rotten wood,
it’s headstone letters — lichen-filled
it’s senseless skin
it’s drum-skin-tense
My crave is pale, a withered skull,
it’s hand-in-pocket-urge.
My crave is not a butterfly.
Rotten wood, covered with moss by Ivan Shishkin
For Kerry’s platform at Toads I write this inspired by the Leonard Cohen video.
—
September 8, 2015
Björn Rudbergs writings 
Wow! This one knocked me off my little feet! >
Great poem
Well written.
Wonderful. Your choice of words and images spectacular
you definitely captured in this piece of ‘crave’ the crude and coldness described in leonard cohen’s oratory as to how words or names must not entice with emotion or lust but only the cerebral coolness of explication.
We have to watch those cravings, I would say tame them, but can we really? We can though keep them under a leash. The second stanza really does it for me. The rottingness, the death that comes with it. Also, another list poem, really.
My neck clenched as I read it and I felt the words. Yes, the hunger , the crave is not small, light or colorful. It is, instead, an entity all its own.
WOW.
What a wonderful response to Cohen’s words. Every poet must remain true to his/her own craving.
“it’s senseless skin”
I love what you implied here. It’s sense, less skin. Something you feel but don’t/can’t touch. That’s exactly what a craving is. And if you can touch it, then it’s best you keep your hands in your pocket if you want to avoid it. Or maybe there’s another reason your hand is in your pocket.
No, cravings are never butterflies, are they?
I love that you start out with the fact that your craving is a hunger, because what I crave most often is sushi. 😛 So I loved reading this lusty poem as if you’re all worked up and drooling over this immense desire for a certain thing you’re just dying to eat.
It’s both sense less and senseless..
I have no aptitude for such depth in poetry. So I take my hat off to a master poet…
Oh, I think I would rather crave a butterfly than a withered skull. I find myself wondering…why the skull.
Nice–yes, big, an entity all its own–
good n’gritty – dig this rugged poem.
Its amazing how you play with words … beautiful
Nice cravings, Bjorn, nice 55.
I have a skull that I hang on the wall, a cow’s head skull.
..
Wonderful!
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Thank you 😉