Sad Labels:
retrospect
There was just a little blood on the tip of her toe. Leftover lipstick from the injury's kiss. Termites in every thought. Hollowing out the skeleton while the skin sunk in heavy pleats. Threatening to reveal what hid below.
All the Gershwin roses and the kitten's fists. In bottles crayoned green until I can't keep up with all the letters in all the words in all the sentences that want to be last night instead of this.
She traced the smoke with her stare. Castrated eyes desperately trying to ejaculate. In defeated huffs and awkward grabs. Fetching the bottom in breathless plunges. As though it hadn't always been theree.
On the pupils of the raindrops as they winced. On the smile in the glass. As it looked back at us. So certain.
When Sylvia Plath went to meet a publisher friend of hers he thought everything was so impassionate despite the pain being scribbld all over, "Its like you see everything from the corner of your eye."
Its beautiful, what you write. From the corner of your eye.
Everything de.vile said is right. This is one of your best yet I think. A great, intriguing line at every turn. Reading your poems, this one especially, is seeing things through a new, skewed world. Not a word wasted, not a word overwraught in this one.
i can think of nothing more wonderful than being compared to miss plath. even though i am a terrible fan and have only read the bell jar twice.
she had me at the "i am. i am. i am." nothing has ever read so perfectly since.
thanx you guys. for coming back time and again. reading. and taking the time to leave your thoughts.
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