Sunday, November 14, 2010

This is the moon without a tide.

I can't feel anything.
There are too many books on my skin.
I just want to sleep a slow, long slumber. But the silly girls and their pageant stances — they're stopping me.
And so is the rock ricocheting in my head.
I can't cough out the ash from my lungs,
nor is it ever warm enough in the winter.

It's terrible that I wonder, when I stumble across photos,
"Well, did you fuck her, too?"
It's worse that I don't care.
Or maybe it's better.

The air in the room is too dry to breathe.
This time of night doesn't foster coherence.
All the better. Let's just all stay enigmatic.
You keep to your side; I'll keep to mine.
Not that you could ever scale the walls around me anyways.

I guess there's not much anyone can do for a zombie with a death wish.
And we can't all be modern-day Picassos.

2 comments:

  1. It's terrible that I wonder, when I stumble across photos,
    "Well, did you fuck her, too?"
    It's worse that I don't care.

    Don't you?...

    ReplyDelete
  2. I agree with Barry. Every word of this piece screams that you care.

    "I just want to sleep a slow, long slumber. But the silly girls and their pageant stances — they're stopping me."

    Whoever knows, what's better? To lend ourselves to the unknowing, to hope that the silence will protect us from each others murky pasts? Or to rip off the bandaid, and bleed if we must, until we drown in the dirty details of our indiscretions?

    I guess that's why we pour it into our poetry and leave it open for interpretation; hoping that they'll understand the words we are too afraid to say without us having to utter them.

    ReplyDelete

Write me a song.