Why Doesn't That Bracelet Fall Off?
Green river of dune season and a packet of black stars
when her mouth flies by like a freeway of blurred oil refineries by a lake of suspicious black fish
the bedroom paved with willow-grass and baking bread
which licks the butter from the day's sharp teeth of grandpa's sailory motel
a motel in lisbon is jacobin turtle
today's lost buttons jangle in the pockets of an autumn flower
rainfall into a hat driven over by a cartload of piglets and cheese-cakes
carrying a box of guitar and tom-toms into his asteroid ears
hair of straw blinding his eyes from the disgrace of seperation
and his brother bent over his mother like a grand piano in drag
she won't apply to the night for custody of shredded children
we learn to walk by using our eyes
and the mechanical ballerina rotates in the corner
and the unplugged stereo system screams like the sun
the sun which burns like aluminum skyline
as we file past the sugar bowl of giants in leopard skin tights
the five jack-hammers of his hand and the breeze
of golden knives in sudden rendezvous
to make our peace with the secret furnace
fishing the river in black star
arms pulled up by a passing cloud
g
Green river of dune season and a packet of black stars
when her mouth flies by like a freeway of blurred oil refineries by a lake of suspicious black fish
the bedroom paved with willow-grass and baking bread
which licks the butter from the day's sharp teeth of grandpa's sailory motel
a motel in lisbon is jacobin turtle
today's lost buttons jangle in the pockets of an autumn flower
rainfall into a hat driven over by a cartload of piglets and cheese-cakes
carrying a box of guitar and tom-toms into his asteroid ears
hair of straw blinding his eyes from the disgrace of seperation
and his brother bent over his mother like a grand piano in drag
she won't apply to the night for custody of shredded children
we learn to walk by using our eyes
and the mechanical ballerina rotates in the corner
and the unplugged stereo system screams like the sun
the sun which burns like aluminum skyline
as we file past the sugar bowl of giants in leopard skin tights
the five jack-hammers of his hand and the breeze
of golden knives in sudden rendezvous
to make our peace with the secret furnace
fishing the river in black star
arms pulled up by a passing cloud
g
3 comments:
Test-tube soldier!
Adam, I can't deny it, over the months I have become increasingly attached to you. I find the fact that you spend so much time in airports to be very mysterious and alluring. Quite darkly exotic. But I have bcome too dependant on you. Whenever you don't write to me I get crazy jealous, incapacitated, in fact. I imagine you are at an airport e-mailing some-one else. Pehaps you're even telling them about me, laughing and mocking me, telling them what a sucker and loser i am. I just can't take it anymore. That weekend in Tijuana meant the world to me, the most real fun I've had since my husband died, but all you ever say about it is "it's been very nice to meet you." And you tell lies: if you work from home, why are you always in airports? And if you lie about that, what else are you lying about? It's all too much for me, and the strain has meant i've lost my job, my apartment, and everyone of my friends except Faith. But a woman can't live by Faith alone. I miss your rough hands, your sailor-mouth, your collection of Nigerian postage stamps, 1957-1973, and the sound of ice swooshing around in a jam-jar called Hope. But I'm at the end of my rope, with no-one to hold the other end. I don't need the "stuff" and "good money" you always dangle in front of my mouth like a super-sized organic carrot, carrots can't fill the hole i have inside me. It's you I want, Adam. And you I can't have. Nothing means anything. You mean everything. Therefore you are nothing. I know that's true. I really do know it. It's just, I don't relly know it. And that's why I'm wearing the wedding dress from my first marriage as I write this, and it's why my keyboard is wet with tears. Will that fuck up my laptop, Adam? I don't know about such things, Adam. I just know I wish I was back in Tijuana. But then again, I also wish that aeroplanes had never been invented!! Oh, Damn you! Damn you!
Are you the blonde?
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