i’m not going to pretend i’m not writing this. this will stand for what it is. how very much it affects my vanity. i meant to write however much it affects my vanity but i didn’t. i’m writing love poems for people i don’t love.
it is in the eyes
white letters white letterspoached in water set adrift
white letters whiteyou say she pulled them out
white letters white white whitefor modesty’s sake
i say that wouldn’t make me believe
just ill. if you force the issue
then maybe i’d agree that something there was o so
catholic. no, i’m not trying to write or anything.
the great feeling is that you ask very little and you get very little.
the language confuses it. makes you read yellow instead of gold. she said
the yellow walls remind me of the orange sweater that he took me in
meaning she was upset by this and not wanting yellow walls
but, that’s a lie, actually, because what she really said was
when my retarded cousin was 18 years old she molested me and no one in my family would do anything about it because she didn’t know any better... i was only six. see how they hurt me?
i won’t lie. it was heavy. and what that had to do with the colors of yellow and gold and orange is something she could only explain. i just didn’t wear those colors. how could i?
when someone has been hurt very badly by sex i think maybe it isn’t something someone can really get over. and how can you demand it? how can you expect it? what will you do when there is no recovery from that kind of pain? but that wasn't sex. it isn't sex when it is that.
she did recover.
i was thinking about it again the other day. it didn’t really crack the way it used to. the name escapes me but the organ is so very loud that i forget my misremembering colors.
a plummet and then the door creaks
a voice says “what do you want”
and the door creaks some more.
i can’t think about that question without grunting. more creaks. a dog barks and a train is blowing. doesn’t the wind always hammer? just like doors always creak. and floors. and dogs always bark. the whispering will get you nowhere i’m already pissed off by all this normalcy.
all these fragments really mean is i’m an asshole and shouldn’t be trusted.
the grammar induces convulsions.
my grammar induces my own convulsions.
i hedge at the writing of you. i want to vomit into my keyboard and pull up something beautiful, something that people will want to read, but mostly i just want to pull you up out of these fonts and rub what is left of my misery all over yr body.