do you ever do you ever do or say really stupid things instead of i need you and i’m sorry and saudade and how the longing and at night the longing and the tears and the stars hang low and the smell of pine reminds me of the cardigan you mostly wore and not that the cardigan you wear ever smelled of pine, oh god let me start again, no it’s just that your smell is in my nostrils or what i imagine your smell to be if we ever got close enough besides that one time. and so i’m leaving and deleting and drinking whiskey and deleting and regretting the potential infinities of the past. and leaning and deleting and somehow leaning further sadward which is a direction i never knew existed until right fucking now. don’t invest what is not yours to invest in friends. this is my final post. see wordpress for more glorious yet sober mistakes.
My dear, my dear, I know
More than another
What makes your heart beat so;
Not even your own mother
Can know it as I know,
Who broke my heart for her
When the wild thought,
That she denies
And has forgot,
Set all her blood astir
And glittered in her eyes.
- W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)
I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you
Meanwhile there’s a stink of fat and baby crap.
I’m doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.
The smog of cooking, the smog of hell
Floats our heads, two venemous opposites,
Our bones, our hair.
I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.
Once you were beautiful.
In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: ‘Through?
Gee baby, you are rare.’
You acted, acted for the thrill.
The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
I try to keep him in,
An old pole for the lightning,
The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.
The blue sparks spill,
Splitting like quartz into a million bits.