All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far...
Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind.
Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know – no matter what they call it.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious.
Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long...
The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
Love your self’s self where it lives.
Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going.
The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!