Categorie “English”

Even geen zin in reacties

some b’s are meant to bumble

for Patricia T.

it’s not like you have much say in the matter:
when the sun rises, it rises, when it sets,
it sets. the scene may include an ocean

bed aflame with longing or the stark white
linen of death – and you, longing, neither for
nor against an ending, but longing
just the same.

and if it takes this long, it takes a lot
to wait. but you can’t really say that,
can you. and either way: it never ends.

just like some b’s are meant to bumble,
some t’s have to be crossed. you bear those,
sleeping lightly, just to make sure
t won’t be lost.

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something religious

a lot of it was just teenage bravado:
we gave her food, she took her clothes off.
we put a cable to her mouth, she bled
from every hole like it was something religious.

still, people have to be quiet until they are.
see paragraph 12: you have to make adjustments
to your perceptions – i’ve been stealing my mum’s
lately and they are so warm and comfy to cart around.

we gave her food and she bled, to put it kindly,
flawed. it was something religious; the diversity
of holes made playing unforgettable when firing
flat-shooting loads at typical defensive instances.

when Tallulah was put down, a truculent storm
raged for hours. a lot of it was just teenage bravado:
like pashmina-type wraps, the cover of moral certainty
comes in many flavors, you make adjustments

via a drip, but there doesn’t appear to be a point
of impact. it was something religious: we all know
what happened, but answers can not substitute
for that encounter – it’s basically a feel good thing.

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power broker super vixen fashionista manga artist

iii

head spinning like tumbleweed, she woke
with Nazca lines across her back; intricate
pathways raked by the tails of minor

stars falling from lowered ceilings.
pain is derived from the loss of hope,
like the sharp thrill of broken glass

colonizing the genital tract, buddies taking
turns behind a white picket fence, the sticky
smell she knows from overheated dorm rooms

and the knowledge she can be who she wants to be:
power broker super vixen fashionista manga artist
or, perhaps, sitting up by herself, without cushions.

ii

a star team can be a girl’s first major heartbreak:
it’s not that she couldn’t handle the ego bruise (post
puberty fat look, heels propped up on the chairs’ legs
to reduce thigh spread) or the bouts of dry-heaving
in overheated dorm rooms.

after all, she can be who she wants to be: power broker
super vixen fashionista manga artist or back to her
old lolling ways – watching tumbleweeds with eyes
seemingly enlarged by context.

and yes, he did sign a piece of paper backwards, lick it
and stick it to her chest, arranged her raking limbs
like Nazca lines, eventually letting her hold her
legs up while he fucked her.

i.

when she was eight, this was her happy place:

white picket fence,
dog lolling on the mezzanine,
tumbleweed raking the sky.

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final words on love

the layered softness of her skin? forget it
was ever yours to touch, and if you touch it
feel it wither. this is best practice, an exercise
in mitigating future disappointment.

the whale’s smile in the warm curve
of her knee? It appears only when she sleeps
like this, just after, and never when she squats
to pee, or runs to catch a train.

if it tempts you, know that love is a vowel
in a verbal tug of war; a futile invocation
of an avoidable past, so common a tale
you could (you told her this on many occasions)

have written it yourself, but didn’t; a mediocre novel
materializing on her nightstand, then on yours,
and back again; a story you never intended
to finish, yet invariably do.

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cubicles

he finds himself, again, scalding under the incredibly
well-built raindome showerhead and growls (courteously)
at the backlit designer-mirror – not quite the predator
as advertized perhaps, but animal just the same.

[19 and high she said
she’d have his baby
and he believed her]

when did his limbs grow so impossibly, intolerably long?
they unfold randomly as he crouches under the pressure,
bars and bars to wash off his impending nausea, his self
induced sickness pulsating like a recharged toothbrush.

[they fucked in closets and confessionals
with saints and specks
of dust as their witness]

he hides his longing in a hollow under his desk, it throbs
and whines unattended for hours; when he finally relieves
himself in the ladies, he wipes his whiteness off the seats
like a good boy, regurgitates time until release.

[once she got sober
long enough to leave him
she did]