she makes noises from the bathroom. her piss applauds her in loud splashes. her stomach folds down the corners of her thoughts. furtive dog ears wince through her brow. as i casually thumb through the pages. the fetal compositions of lovers and poets.
my highlighter dried out in the middle of our conversation. and i was left with what i think she might've said. all the wonderful lies she would've told me. all the broken doorknobs we would've turned and opened. in a Calvary of mania. in a whitewash of melancholy. the mind is life's greatest treason. or else the other way around. there's no way to know for sure. what is right. what is wrong. about anything.
she tucks the pillows under her head and points to a small dent in the wall.
i ask her what she sees. but she won't say.
there's just the sound of the heat going off. to think for a while how cold we should become. there's the pitch. a fastball. right over the plate. there's the bat in her hands. loud enough to wake her up. but she won't swing.
not tonight.
Saturday
2/10/2007 11:19:00 PM
Sad Labels:
addiction
marvellous - you had me at the title to be honest - as I'm sure you knew. I won't fawn and list all the lines that worked for me - that would be pretty much a cut and paste job of the whole poem mind you.
I think you should get some of these poems sent off to places - they will snap your arm off I reckon.
yes, i did have you mind when i chose the title. nice of you to notice.
ha. every line. you know there are some you just hate. you're just too kind to point them out.
appreciate your suggestion. but it always seemed to me a lot of work for little to no reward.
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