:::::Also, where the hell did this come from?::::::
grapefruits never held their shape anyway- with their
carved pithy ceilings of sainthood and prophecy;
a meek voice tapping its hand on my shoulder.
i cried for you, i scream, blasphemy, i cried for you.
you're a fucking whore, i swear it, i can tell him
i can scream it into the habit carved face for thirteen days
and still know that he found a darker embrace than mine
to sink his fingers into, deep, wet, in the night.
we were made for this earth, together, i can explain to him
we were all made for these passive circular motions and pulls
we were fine until the sun stopped being warm for either of us
we were fine until you sunk closer to the middle, wasted on scotch.
i have in my face forty women,
laughing with legs of wine
you have seen them all
without their minds
you are aching my bones, popping secret air bubbles between my joints.
what of these paths, my dearest, my fucking sacrifice, my love?
what of this decision you have drawn?
what of this mess?
you are waiting silently for me to finish
so that you can push me over again.
draw out this citrus serenade into long vibrato
and i will sing your tangerine chorus
fuck you, i love you.
That is some serious residual JR anger right there, but where did it come from? I was just having a normal poetry exchange with Krister and that just flew from my fingers. Totally out of nowhere. Well, it partially makes sense, I've been spending more time on the novel, but really, I've been a good girl. I haven't put myself inside of the events, just the writing... ha, that's such bullshit. How could I possibly do that? I may paint my bedroom soon and put up lots of foam board to spread that puppy out like jelly on toast. I gotta see what it looks like from the outside.
