Death Like A Needle
Death like a needle made from a drunken clown's breath sews the shadow of a (I can't make the next two words out. I first wrote this poem in longhand) to your shadow.
4 miesiące temu
Death like a needle made from a drunken clown's breath sews the shadow of a (I can't make the next two words out. I first wrote this poem in longhand) to your shadow.
4 miesiące temu
A friend calls me on the telephone from Tucson, Arizona. He's unhappy. He wants to talk to somebody in San Francisco. We talk for a while. He mentions there's a moth in the room. "It's solemn," he says.
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Toward the pleasures of a reconstituted crow I collect darkness within myself like the shadow of a blind lighthouse.
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The last surprise is when you come gradually to realize that nothing surprises you any more.
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We are in a kitchen in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Some bacon is frying. It smells like a character that you like in a good movie. A beautiful girl is watching the bacon.
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Looking out a hotel window it's snowing in New York with great huge snowflakes like millions of transparent washing machines swirling through the dirty air of this city, washing it.
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I don't want to know about it. Tell it to somebody else. They'll understand and make you feel better.
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I have been unable to find a poem for this title. I've spent years looking for one and now I'm giving up. November 3, 1970
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They said that my telephone would be fixed by 6. They guaranteed it.
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I can tell by your eyes that I have asked the wrong question. They look troubled and away. We'll change the subject.
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You have your friends. I have mine.
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Fuck me like fried potatoes on the most beautifully hungry morning of my God-damn life.
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When he died he left his wife three gas stations and a warehouse. He left his mistress two supermarkets.
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The sexual accident that turned out to be your wife, the mother of your children and the end of your life, is home cooking dinner for all your friends.
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At the guess of a simple hello it can all begin toward crying yourself to sleep, wondering where the fuck she is.
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We were the eleven o'clock news because while the rest of the world was going to hell we made love.
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As mechanical as a flight of stairs, as solemn as a flight of stairs, they have found each other after years of looking.
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Here is something beautiful (etc. I have so little left that you would want. Its color begins in your hand. Its shape is your touch.
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Umbrallaing herself like a poorly-designed angel she falls in love again: destined to a broken heart which is the way it always is for her. I'm glad she's not falling in love with me.
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I'll affect you slowly as if you were having a picnic in a dream. There will be no ants. It won't rain.
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