#59. Melancholia

October 23, 2009

Melancholia

absolute yeah,
stream of maximum blue encounters
minimum giggles of disinterested women
music like hammer throws of color
and swings of ripping brooks distorting
rocks and feasts of joy to be questioned.
Triples of fencers flickering dances back
and thrusts across a small window ghosts
trying to become real, painted at least
to their invisible partners. But the lights go on
and off strobing like a TV controlled by the fat man living
across the hall. Reversed creatures image
drinking babble of pretensia at bar
the coffee comes in black pots ink
driven peace papers are divine
imaginings. Odd stone encrusted
little beige woman dangles obscure
bizarre tokens pretends
that sunglasses are hiding her like some kid
disappearing behind peek-a-boo
hands but is grossing the whole fucking
place out. Whole tribes shifting
balance and place in the room
and as she pays and leaves someone
lets the gas out of the Goodyear blimp.
How sad that life comes down to this.
I have been cursed by a mad witch
and use these writings to ward the cast.
The world guards me always.
The punks are in and the little girl
in a pierced woman’s body greets them
to the chagrin of the date who wishes
to God that they had left already.

One Response to “#59. Melancholia”

  1. Evelyn said

    “the coffee comes in black pots ink”
    wow
    “How sad that life comes down to this.”
    to what?

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