it’s just saturday, i think
as the faucet in my brain screams,
vomiting scalding water (krovvy?)
and a smile falls from under your nose
how can i disappoint your formative breast?
the image of your swimming my icy river remain.
did your long exhalation start
with my head in your lap,
my terror leaking out of my eyes
like virgo trying to stifle a cough?
i know your name.
and my life has ended.
coincidence is so confusing.
where does love go after it drops out?
having been squezed like a novelty sponge?
it seems almost a sure thing that when i am most distressed and most emotional for whatever purpose or reason, my prose is horrible. i feel like this is a good example. i tend to think most of my prose is suckadocious, but i feel like i’m not even close with this stilted words, and as such, i become even more frustrated.
but keep trying! that’s what they say!
i’ll keep on it.
walk, young men, among the flowers,
and know the width and span of your lovers,
when soon enough comes the time,
your lines will fall slient and plodding
and the flower of your youth will wilt.
the confusing truth of childhood
become lies so clearly understood
as the rook moves just in front
the brunt of your efforts remain
focused on your glass bead collection.
it’s amazing how being interrupted can really just destroy the flow of words.
now i’m kind of bumped up a level, and out of the deep.
hmm… more later.
your amber trembling lips
bust against the floor
the white liquid death
did not threaten, as death does-
it stood, defiant –
we see just the sky
our dreams continue like this–
but love me the same.
what color are tears?
what color abject sadness?
pebbles in the road
blue in the evening,
how is it you could have died?
the babel goldfish
as the cardinal flies
i am again a child
to be added to later. the muse has suddenly departed.
this raven of amiable taste,
does it yet pick the bones of the innocent departed?
the beauty that lies in darkness
never shall fade by being lightened,
never having been primarily _sinister_
what constitutes distance
and how cold it is now versus those days you remember?
whose privilege stands to gain
by marking little dots on a map?
in the end
in the end
it’s a touch and a kind word
and sleeping and smiling and hoping
hoping that it will never end
how soft your face must be,
but are you drunk?