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[15 Oct 2009|11:54am] |
I've given my notebooks enough love.
Today it is raining. My hands are cold as usual in my bed. Kitchen sounds echo from the outside in differentiating nothing from appliances to construction. It's hard to move. My ovaries are at war with each other. I always consider this, in a Marxist sense, to be a great blood shedding revolution. O how I long to be somewhere quiet, to be muffled by the cottonous consistency of trees, hunch backed willows longing in the wind. I finished my new piece yesterday. This (not writing, but posting) is my ephemeral refuge from melancholy, or rather,the acknowledgement of my consciousness of melancholy through consciousness of feeling- a juvenile stage in ABSOLUTE KNOWLEDGE, let us never end with self-idolatry...blowing kisses to Hegel from my pillow.
Poem of Longing
For Igor Lesage
Coming to, count four walls
One, three, the puerile frith
Between opening eyes
And seeing.
Wiry light befalls the
Hemlock
Does glaze the iris
Of my fevered gaze.
There, on the stool
Old ink once was
Speaking
Now quiets itself
In an abstract
Frontispiece.
Shh, stifling wind
The unwavering carnifex
Purloigns the mercy
From ripening
Slavish fruit
Shh, stifling wind
Wears lead
From the ground
In an iron
Mantilla-
To feel restricted is
The wind's secret to life.
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