The parasitic quality
of the way she sips her cup of tea
makes a fool out of the face of me:
Dahrling drips
from her lips
like a languid fire
where the only burning is its own desire,
magnified
to the point where I’d
rather reason with the sea
and drown in the lung-choke-bob of nothingness
than continue listening to this Earl Gray bliss…


I need to be free from the hook
of you—
the walk and talk and look
of you.

(Your wholeness is something I already see through:
a crack, a crevice—you’ll see, light does shine through)

What you say is true
is the leeching hold of a make-believe.

The only difference we have is that you
have always had the freedom to leave.

11/10/2011

Posted on 11/10/2011
Copyright © 2025 Rob Littler