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after the crash, the black box still survives
that must be why i work
my fingers to the bone, the judgment,
it will fall heavy later
among the politicians, popes and poets,
the greedy men and empty grass,
leaves of mud and women; like me
always on their knees-
who only tried to love as
you loved
solicitude is hard but
you're harsher
next time we're together, please
put me to work or set me loose in a crowd
where romance doesn't fit or isn't apt
and unresponsively, I'll promise you
i won't learn a thing from it
if you'll promise to teach me
i am so sick of the bourgeois boys who
haven't read catallus or understood him
and when you write me back
the script is cursive like cambridge - judgmental
so next time, when you want to
come into my room, i'll be primed to
wipe up the tears and arm you with my paranoia
i give it freely so you can go and fuck yourself
but right at this moment i understand
you're hanging in the best you can
so am i
i am seasick and the room's escaping
Comments
Kailashana2
Fri, 2011-07-08 07:01
I just love your poetry.
I just love your poetry (including your titles!). Period. Full stop.
~A
CCfire
Fri, 2011-07-08 07:11
I just love your comments.
I just love your comments. Period. Full stop :) lol
Chez
"The perfect woman perpetrates literature as she does a small sin: as an experiment, in passing, to see if anybody notices it - and to makes sure that somebody does." - Nietzsche