My love won’t come.
I am too afraid of it.
Whatever is might mean…
My love won’t come.
I am too contrived for it.
To full of myself
We live in an age where
everyone is striving for a
cheap glory
a kind of mimicry of quality
coupled with a complete desperation
to be known entirely by the world
as some grand example of
human potential put into place
I am playing that game too.
But only quietly on this keyboard
and I dream of a few books
a correspondence of sorts
of recognition after the fact
I see the whole library of history
being a kind of diary of sorts
And I shall sculpted my part
perhaps not.
perhaps i will give out.
loose the drive for it.
loose the care for making it my craft.
realise my writing is merely an imitation
a whining nothing
derivative bullshit moaning prose
it will be no tabernacle
no one will even laugh
it while have been as if a
poor joke had been heard
and over looked.
A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if circles and children and islands
weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentialy a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.
A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren’t enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.
Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the wierd abundance.
