20 August, 2006
Surely, there is something better than this.There is night,
just as unpredictable,
but there is solitude,
even in the teeming black.
At night,
I take a lover with nipples the colour of raisins;
a country blooms into a district from a town
in the wake of dreams from a somnambulant child;
I am long and blue, birthing a human that frightens me into silence;
Things are true and exactly as they seem, or they are swift,
and they run with thieves.
Thoughts become thoughts become thoughts;
there is no loss when they shapeshift, not really,
when everything is circular.
People are physical events that can be remembered;
something in the retelling stays the same
and is the pinprick that wakes you
when they become other,
leaving themselves behind to be swept from corner to corner.
SUBSCRIBE TO THIS WEBSITE
2 comments:
OMFG, thank you. It's like this is comprised solely of the nuggets of juicy poetic goodness I look forward to on milkmoney! At first I wished you'd shown me sooner, and then I was so glad to have it now. You is a noice laydee, frau Schmutzie, und talented, too. The secret part makes it cooler, but hard not to want to share it.
post a comment ~ Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom] ~ main page |
