Wallpaper is paper and requires attention.
In more ways than one, the power’s out in Denmark,
where the dryness of a mouth is the question
of the feather,
and though they say sorrow is the salt
of the learned, the book’s been bent
and the river netted
where once we tapped clay to egg and aster
as a matter of performance.
Once I was a syllable,
and you a slope of steam.
But since you came over the cliff with intention,
my gender’s called in sick,
and not only has the sandbox rented depression,
now the wolves have come into the milk.
I hear your hands have been off in the desert,
and most have gone hungry
this week.
As I slipped into the opposite
of cultural construct, you wept and slunk as a deer;
for the camera captures what never
was there, ever
a spook the excuse we’ve made;
how softly we fuck the rain.
i’m not sure this poem really fits in with the tone of this blog in general, but what the hell. it wanted to be seen, and i’m feeling rather self-indulgent. do with it what you will.
September 17th, 2006 | #
i quoted it to the showers… after i fucked em
September 26th, 2006 | #