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. 

https://www.wileyvalentine.com/2010/01/13/nicoletta-ceccoli/

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.

aphorismsfragmentaryfragments

◄ Fragments 6

Fragments 8 ►

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