I don't know why I'm writing this down.
I made these stars and put
them in your eyes so that they
sparkle when they gaze at me and I
can feel a little like a goddess.
This is a bit like confession, and
it's stupid because I can't
rhyme or reason or create
coherence for all to see all I
do is shuffle these pictures in my mind - a
dark brown foot in a neon-lit room perhaps
or the curve of a smile.
If I asked you to yield all your secrets
what would you show me? Would you
show me the rawness of sinew the bleak-
ness of thoughts would you shatter
away all walls and suck me in so deep so
deep that all that remains of me is a
tint in your blood a tune
in your head that you cannot
hum cannot forget?
This is a bit like confession and it's
meaningless really like when you drop to
your knees in the rain hands clasped in fervent
prayer although you never knew a god
or scripture, you make up the words as if
words were your only escape, a hopeless
poet without a purpose, a child
with nowhere to go.
And the abyss gazes into you then and you
become a little like the abyss and then
a little more and what's
wrong in that is it that you cannot
break into flowers anymore?
This is the bit like confession and
it's absurd because I look for
songs in crashing silence because this
flesh requires no words no music no rhythm
in iridiscence
in bursting in flames like insane super-
novas they
need not create
art.
And love is just a four-letter word and
so is fuck and so is fool how far
did you believe in those stories they
told you as a kid what
is it that makes you sleep now?
And so, you know, this
is a bit like confession but it's
made to make no sense to you
or you or anyone of you, I
don't know why I'm writing
this down
at all.
