Nothing changes.
The girl who is there is the one who always has been
staring down the centre of a barrel named Apathy,
conveniently tied to the tracks
and waiting for the sound of gallant hooves
and Spaghetti Western themes.

It's always all about the arms and agony.

I am air and I
am ludicrous, as is the fallacy
that seemed to be "epiphany."
The long and sweet goodbyes
and mutual awe,
they drone away and fade
with the ebb of recent melodrama.
The right words laugh and point at me, those
Secret spy-ink love notes writ
on ancient crumbling parchment.

This love is like a China vase
slipped from our arthritic hands
by a dark and tidal gravity.
There is no going back to her.
And Grace, oh supple Grace has been replaced
with sobbing mess-of-a-girl
with choking pebble coated throat
and pure and noxious methane
guilt
regret
suppression
a subtle morphing
a need for the words and the arms that lay
at the root of a sharp and poignant deceit,
controversial uprise of our silent-film damsel,
so binding in this past of mine.

What good is being good
or true or strong
when love can piss
in my open palms
and regret serves only to show me my faults
and does nothing to mend up these violent
quivering fingers
fists,
tongues and gnashing
teeth?

I shiver in arms that hold me blindly
fearing false-promise in another one's reach
and praying for some light to one day
someday
make him see.





Me.

12/11/2005