i.

this place is not my place -
these walls of smooth white-washed oblivion,
walls of sanity, reflections of grace
drive me back to the brink of delerium.

this place is a place of those nothings;
mind you, not the comfortable nothings I knew.

this place is the nothing of dead-eyes and dreams
this place is everything I'd fought for you.

sway to the side to the beat of a drum
move your head with the whims of a snake -
serpentine kisses and sanguine addictions;
remnants of bittersweet ophelian tears
[fears]

ii.

poetry, the Muse!
herald of dreamers -
a visionary stumbles past
porcelain gods

false worship to idols spun thick from the sands -
shattering fast
when the fall from my grasp.

glistening shards of the anasthesia -
opiate -
everything--nothing

the heart of my tongue.

droplets of bitter, sharp saline yesterdays,
tainted with trickles of Cuervo,
and gold.

iii.

these ways are not mine -
they are capitalist daydreams:

facades to beat down on my soul/heart
--my hands.

these kisses of Marx dance with
Muse borne of song -
and these poems are raising suspicions
again.

androdgynous dialectics of historical games -
blame the future
the fodder
for all my mistakes.

i am my own atrablious prose.

09/30/2003

Author's Note: still debating whether or not I am fond of this - the outcome (as always): erratic.

Posted on 09/30/2003
Copyright © 2024 Erin Werle