My version of her that was in the snow. My feeling for the piles of snow as I tripped on a blue sky. My sense of being crushed by a crush that made me crush myself into shape for her, flea-bitten & tenacious. What tenacity of my arms around her as snow fell on the tiny town in the dark. My light within darkness. My drifting in her.
Breathless in the hypnotic her arms all over me like Venus. The tiny town in her eyes will be set on fire tonight as the villagers flee screaming. Imagine myself standing still under the big golden lights realizing just how small I am. It'll be a cold day in hell tonight. Lawn flamingoes will be reduced to marshmallows. Bees will crawl across the molten marigolds and'll feel helpless because I want her. There are never enough socks. I will romp club- and bare-footed over coals for her even. Ever get the feeling that somehow everything's prefabricated? If I have one what name should I give to my other?
4 comments:
This prose poem is very beautiful in an innocent way.
I wish more people wrote from such innocence sometimes.
If you want to capture her, just use that one pic of you on your blog profile. The one that would make Andy Warhol think he got string cheese with Gerard Malanga when he could have had Reggiano with you.
It is good for you Andy Warhol has gone.
You might have to suffer all sorts of indignities...like doing a whip dance or something.
Sorry, comments on personal appearance are terribly infradig, I know. Especially in the poetry world.
"oh yes indeed it's fun time fun time"
some black guy just said that in my head.
it's from some track somewhere. 99% of my brain is pop music. the other 1% is saline i think.
sort of like a boob job.
Bees are going out of bzzness. Supposed to all be dead by 2035. It's something the communists did in Red China, but nobody knows what.
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