Sunday, August 8, 2010

Not a poem.


I want to sip sorrow through a straw tonight
sweet, sincere melancholy climbing up the walls of a narrow tube
to my worn-out tongue
to my parched veins, dry, scabbed, cracking.
Rehydrate me.

I want to cut you loose with the petals,
the sharp, silver edges of store-bought flowers,
tidily-wrapped department-store packages
for those romantic bastards.
Set me free.

I want to swim into Sargasso depths,
dark with a darkness unknown to the bitter globe.
They'll breathe down my neck, cling to my back,
the blind fish of a lost, shoreless sea.
Come with me.

I want to sew, with gilded threads, these letter into words,
into sentences, into paragraphs, and pour them on your skin
a dripping trickle to to climb up your spine
a sinful sip to drug you slowly.

Rewrite me.

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Write me a song.