Secrecy flows through you,
a different kind of blood.
It’s as if you’ve eaten it
like a bad candy,
taken it into your mouth,
let it melt sweetly on your tongue,
then allowed it to slide down to your throat
like the reverse of uttering,
a word dissolved
into its glottals and sibilants,
She had a great natural dignity (I cannot imagine anyone who knew her trying to take a liberty with her), and was extremely intelligent. She was also exceedingly sensitive.”
-Poet Edith Sitwell, 1965.
'In repose her face was at moments strangely, prophetically tragic, like the face of a beautiful ghost- a little spring-ghost, an innocent fertility-daemon, the vegetation spirit that was Ophelia.'
Hey you, dragging the halo-
how about a holiday in the islands of grief?
Tongue is the word I wish to have with you.
Your eyes are so blue they leak.
Your legs are longer than a prisoner’s
last night on death row.
I’m filthier than the coal miner’s bathtub
and nastier than the breath of Charles Bukowski.
You’re a dirty little windshield.
I’m standing behind you on the subway,
hard as calculus. My breath
be sticking to your neck like graffiti.
I’m sitting opposite you in the bar,
waiting for you to uncross your boundaries.
I want to rip off your logic
and make passionate sense to you.
I want to ride in the swing of your hips.
My fingers will dig in you like quotation marks,
blazing your limbs into parts of speech.
But with me for a lover, you won’t need
catastrophes. What attracted me in the first place
will ultimately make me resent you.
I’ll start telling you lies,
and my lies will sparkle,
become the bad stars you chart your life by.
I’ll stare at other women so blatantly
you’ll hear my eyes peeling,
because sex with you is like Great Britain:
cold, groggy, and a little uptight.
Your bed is a big, soft calculator
where my problems multiply.
Your brain is a garage
I park my bullshit in, for free.
You’re not really my new girlfriend,
just another flop sequel of the first one,
who was based on the true story of my mother.
You’re so ugly I forgot how to spell.
I’ll cheat on you like a ninth grade math test,
break your heart just for the sound it makes.
You’re the ‘this’ we need to put an end to.
The more you apologize, the less I forgive you.
So how about it?