Thursday, May 3, 2012
moans
saccharine sarcasm.
it is in my teeth. eroding.
in a satchel, go ahead,
carry it friend.
"I remember, I was there"
we went north. towards
my past it's a big bad wolf.
"what a tired bedtime story,"
you yawned.
my heart retains much water,
thereby, fat, like
the man with a herniated spine,
I'm alright, friend, I'm fine.
(he moans about it, why can't I?)
you don't remember anything-
even though you were there.
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Tickle your toes. . .
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nipped at the ankles which is how I wander through life sometimes I must be pushed through a door finally opened after years of knock...
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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and now that the anger is gone there may be a few more glimpses like looking out of the window through a thin veil of silk. a look in...
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confession is all: it is what my poetry is, and that is my life.
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it's not possible. I think the problem must be- too much love and hate.
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sex object. not afraid of the words. I've used many objects for the sake of sex. in fact my body has been pretty disposable- I don't...
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