| yes |
[02 Jan 2006|01:37pm] |
soon i may take Poetry
as a lover, finally,
after an elongated
and ardent
courtship.
Poetry seems
quite suited to my lifestyle,
as i am to its.
and it doesnt
mind my smoking or sockwearing
or nail biting or complexion crisis.
it likes me
in white, too, and svelte.
its caress is, indeed,
ghostly, faint; but faithful.
and as real as i may
imagine.
(except it is always away
tending to the dawn
or justice or sorrow or
love, else. and
much patience will be
required at my
end. only) lovers, though
are we; Poetry and i.
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| some symbolic peace |
[02 Jan 2006|03:39pm] |
|
Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row
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| i |
[02 Jan 2006|04:35pm] |
know for sure as certain
that my heart can exist outside of me,
and looking down the business
end of Time, who hands me many
small lengths of rope and a
wooden pail. and immediately,
instinctively i know to set about
looking for the well.
except these fool hands only strive
in wringing, and dashing out memories
in favor of Now, Time's elder. and
Now shrugs off any and all offerings
with a mere and matteroffact
gesture.
and else evades my tiny timeworn
hands; consumed with
fancy, with love..."so what?"
lilts Time, all a-drool and lithe, lounging
in cosmopolitan poses; smiling, only,
at my frustration.
have it all. or take it if you would
rather. (oh,) my thirsty essense
for a well!
(oh,) my litanies for a set of sane
hands! exclamation does not,
necessarily, portend demand -
though little more is left.
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