Down

You want me to write about it but I wont
Pirouette against the glass of your
Patronizing subjectivity--
Tulle to scratch your clutch like the mother
You lust and wish you could write about

You want me to write about that but I wont--
Coddle the gun with its glint in my fingers
And blow my lifeline with some vulgar yelp and
No help of dependence but eyes for the snow, stars
Embedding themselves in the upholstery with false apologies.

You want me to write about him but I wont--
The thump in my folly-cracked job, charity
From sympathetic gluttons:
Sympathy is the glutton’s wake and fancy,
I wont write about that, but perhaps

I’ll write like an angel, if that’s what you want
And heave startled words into their gross observance,
Would you like that? Like an angel I will
Espouse sentiment easily, facilitate the indulgences
Of corrupted and needfully pored over scenes; (he clutched
Me like a doll as I rocked myself across the limbs of God.)

I might write to cry, or cry some words to document,
To feed my disenabled peers. With the wind that said No
And the grass that pricked me lustful with sweat
And the heat that makes me cry in subjective compassion-- the cry
That said Yes and the wind that made fun
And makes fun of the show of drugged dolls forlorn

And names your words featureless and as false as childish need.

I could write about a mother who beat me and a man who loved and left me,
But I’d rather not feed the life-rattle that grabs
Each nuance of embellishment, spits and giggles
And hides them in an attic of mislaid yet pleasantly intended
Promises