Poems for boys, about bodies and "too much."
I found this in my notebook. I wrote it last night, but I don't really remember. It's not-quite-a-poem. It's not good writing by any means, but I think it has revealing snips of illumination in it here and there:
I made poetry accessible
to you-
graypoems (with gravel)
about bodies, for boys, and about
“too much.”
I call you late to use
your voice only as a poet would-in the middle of the night you are accessible.
I put some thought into the second-person point of view entry. You won't read it. You haven't.
Calling you, using passive voice, making promises about touching:
there’s redemption.
In this. In exchanging Bright Eyes
for the Cure. There’s
exhaustion:
the lyrics,
too accessible.
“That’s true intimacy”
that I don’t want.
“In this emptiness,
women are an answer for me.”
even in the heart of Africa.
I’m looking to blend the two of you
subliminally, sublingually, sublimely,
without checking if I’ve taken my pills, the dictionary, your message.
I say, mysteriously,
" ."
That's about...one-tenth of what I wrote. It's sort of unnerving, writing in the middle of the night furiously and for many pages. It reinforces that nothing beautiful comes of "inspiration," only catharsis and rehash. I think that's vital though, too.
I made poetry accessible
to you-
graypoems (with gravel)
about bodies, for boys, and about
“too much.”
I call you late to use
your voice only as a poet would-in the middle of the night you are accessible.
I put some thought into the second-person point of view entry. You won't read it. You haven't.
Calling you, using passive voice, making promises about touching:
there’s redemption.
In this. In exchanging Bright Eyes
for the Cure. There’s
exhaustion:
the lyrics,
too accessible.
“That’s true intimacy”
that I don’t want.
“In this emptiness,
women are an answer for me.”
even in the heart of Africa.
I’m looking to blend the two of you
subliminally, sublingually, sublimely,
without checking if I’ve taken my pills, the dictionary, your message.
I say, mysteriously,
" ."
That's about...one-tenth of what I wrote. It's sort of unnerving, writing in the middle of the night furiously and for many pages. It reinforces that nothing beautiful comes of "inspiration," only catharsis and rehash. I think that's vital though, too.