Saturday, March 10, 2007

From "thirsty poems"

the childhood ideal

my father, he liked me my mother, she held me
they bought me my food, and clothes, helped me board
a bus, allowed me cash, disallowed me the usual misdemeanour.
my father, when I spoke the ga-ga voice, he listened
remarked to my mother, mother listened too
when I spoke the gree-gree voice, to them, at
some sort of party/function/do, do, der der der...
I forget the rest.
oh yes. my uncle. now he spoiled
me. I liked chocolate: he gave it me; I love
insects: he went out of his considerable way to
catch me moths why. why did he do that, what
was I to him?
my friends, they once passed a
ball to me, and then I knew, what to do
next, now—no! I do not want to do that then
and now thing. mystery is there though not in
contrasts but, but, in an absolute dis location. my
friends laughed at, with and to and from me, they
liked me, I said that, I know it.

fingered by the big beloved in front of the slight committee that
time thinking you all love me, you all really love me!
would you not now like me to speak? the
ga-ga gree-gree voice, one more time? for
old times sake and all that we meant to each other
then? feelings. feeling so used, so dirty, so terribly.
soiled, but be lov├ęd—
Post a Comment