"*1.
*** as they harshly call it,
I fell into this morning
at ten o'clock, a drizzling hour
of traffic and wet newspapers.
I thought of him who yesterday
clearly didn't.
2.
That "old last act"!
And yet sometimes
all seems post coitum triste
and I a mere bystander.
Somebody else is going off,
getting shot to the moon.
...we murmur the first moonwords:
Spasibo. Thanks. O.K.*
- Adrienne Rich
I meant to write a headier poem about this
I sit down think about the quarter moon
is it in a fourth? I don't know,
the half of halves
here it is, here i am
writing down all there is to
saint saens the cello
i have a migrane, god.
jesus utterances but afterwards
we'd walk out the dark basements
and smoky apartment rooms (with a start over
sense later in the park)
with this and once you'd told me
"I think shame is a part of me"
however the other one would just
cross his arms
"come on be normal how are you are you ok whatever i don't
care anyways"
not to talk
the heat of the
flue hot on my face
i can't talk if i do i'll have to spit
out this window roll down the car!
the car window
sometimes i'd cry even reduced to tears
i knew to not try that **** with the other guy
you'd just stroke my hair and oh god
Oh god no one had ever touched
hair that softly in the history
of anything
or pulled it like that either and
so i remember august beach nights once
where i'd cry from that memory and
my mother would ask why do you weep?
why do you cry kid?
i'd just look at the breaking waves
the saens sinfonie in my head still
hoarsely say "it's just cause... i'm loved so much you
know"
and me and the guy with the room and the
black hair don't even
count on it
'
he'd hold my hand, alright
i'd feel no comfort in it
still feeling like i'd
taken a friendly stroll
along the state roadway
chemicals. chemicals. chemicals
soft sun in the
black bamboo
flooringwood and goodbyes.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
"*1.
*** as they harshly call it,
I fell into this morning
at ten o'clock, a drizzling hour
of traffic and wet newspapers.
I thought of him who yesterday
clearly didn't.
2.
That "old last act"!
And yet sometimes
all seems post coitum triste
and I a mere bystander.
Somebody else is going off,
getting shot to the moon.
...we murmur the first moonwords:
Spasibo. Thanks. O.K.*
- Adrienne Rich
I meant to write a headier poem about this
I sit down think about the quarter moon
is it in a fourth? I don't know,
the half of halves
here it is, here i am
writing down all there is to
saint saens the cello
i have a migrane, god.
jesus utterances but afterwards
we'd walk out the dark basements
and smoky apartment rooms (with a start over
sense later in the park)
with this and once you'd told me
"I think shame is a part of me"
however the other one would just
cross his arms
"come on be normal how are you are you ok whatever i don't
care anyways"
not to talk
the heat of the
flue hot on my face
i can't talk if i do i'll have to spit
out this window roll down the car!
the car window
sometimes i'd cry even reduced to tears
i knew to not try that **** with the other guy
you'd just stroke my hair and oh god
Oh god no one had ever touched
hair that softly in the history
of anything
or pulled it like that either and
so i remember august beach nights once
where i'd cry from that memory and
my mother would ask why do you weep?
why do you cry kid?
i'd just look at the breaking waves
the saens sinfonie in my head still
hoarsely say "it's just cause... i'm loved so much you
know"
and me and the guy with the room and the
black hair don't even
count on it
'
he'd hold my hand, alright
i'd feel no comfort in it
still feeling like i'd
taken a friendly stroll
along the state roadway
chemicals. chemicals. chemicals
soft sun in the
black bamboo
flooringwood and goodbyes.
this is an attempt at surrealist/ symbolist poetry let me live