Fragments 7

An orchestra of babysitters.

The children grew up and I never named them. I forget you see.

Something came inside me and disappeared like the memory of skin on skin.

I write the endurance of life's marathon. Weary but compelled.

I travelled down the oesophagus of a wire and landed in the belly of a lightbulb. Blew myself out to escape the tyranny of light.

I shattered the glass of my poetry and now I'm all fragments.

The lines on the page are bookshelves for my words.

"Writing as weeping." 

A city of birds and trees the people and buildings are coincidental. 

Experimental grammar disappears as if not making logical sense rendered it invisible.

To arrive at the familiar through extraodinary and astonishing pathways.

I am wealthy enough to own my suffering. To be an animal in an abattoir or a person in a concentration camp is a different type of suffering.

In a dream I entered a church and the congregation began to whisper "Sex is here!"

I came before I arrived. I watched myself not existing.

Stealth doodlebugs suddenly drop passive agressive listening into my district.

My refusal to accept the end of day becomes the loneliness of insomnia.

I can't get over me. I write proganda for the self that won't die.

To be pregnant with statues. To be a mother like Rodin.

The sentimental kills the truth that I love. To read or converse with sentiment is excruciating.


◄ Fragments 6

Fragments 8 ►


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