Sunday, August 12, 2012

What We Tell Ourselves When we Write a Poem, or Let the Big Dog Shit

May I write one line of human sorrow,
And, in that line, cast a capsuled gel of
A past, passing, or pass-once-moreing joy.
In doing so may our pain be easier swallowed,
May our joy be not happiness merely borrowed.

For what is sorrow, but a grief?
And what is grief, but a brief
And all pithy quarrel with ourselves?

When you loved yourself so long-far ago,
Then solitude was but a muslin dress
You could finger off your sunbaked shoulder
And be content with own eyes for own breasts.

And though one must feel at times so distant--
Hearts, minds, loves--all are still insistent.
But some might say, “What is this injustice?  This denying griefs?”
I have my answer: “Time, change, the worm that eats all our days,
Will spin all sorrow’s silk from mulberry leaves. ”
Fukn Lulz. People are rotten.

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