"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