(no subject)
A poem about a girl who fell into her washing machine, except it's more than that. I was talking to sweetlyxabsurdabout this poem, except I lost the paper I'd written the original on, and then completely forgot how it went besides. So I totally re-wrote it. Under an lj-cut because it's very desultory and abstruse and you shouldn't be subject to it unless you really wanted to. Okay, no idea what's going on, but it refuses to go under an lj-cut. Weird. Oh, well. Guess I'll just have to leave it out here.
Isobel Moonchild, all lanky, lusting, lazy-limbed
five feet and a half got mixed in with laundry
and she could never say what happened
but the lid snapped down and the machine
licked its lips, what have we here today?
Soiled linen, lipstick smudges, seven pair
socks that have seen better days,
and Isobel, how kind of you to join us!
Isobel, you're no child of the moon, your
mother was a dishwasher and dad a
crooked mortgage salesman, but that
doesn't matter now. You're soaked
straight through and all the color's
washed out of your eyes; and it was
almost like being born again, you can't lie.
Now you wander those streets with your
ear to the concrete and the word is you're
lost but you're freer than free. And your
clothes are all wet and your hair always drips
but maybe a boy will think you're straight
from the sea; and fall in love faster than a fairytale.
But you came not from the sea or the moon or
the speckled egg or the spinning wheel, you
came from a rented condo on East O'Neill
where the corner store lights blinded your eyes
and projected like a movie on the brownstone
all night; and left your sorry damp head without
a dream or a pebble, just film reels and bedbugs.
And how can he love you if you're not what you
say you are? You lift a washed-out hand to
your washed-out brow and see every dimestore
dream washed up on the beach, and the drones
that collect them and sell them for a promise
or a one-night stand, or put them in the box and
write up a jingle to sell millions on millions.
But the truth is, any prick can write a pun,
any asshole cough up a rhyme, any
dumb-ass can say something deep if you
only put a gun to his head; and anyone
can claim they're unique New York
unique New York unique New York; and
everything's a cycle.
Isobel, Isobel, no one's child and everyone's
child, you're not unique, you're not different,
you're the way a fingerprint forgets to grow
back the way it was before the papercut,
you're the pills that beg to be taken too much
of; and you're worrying with your spin-cycled
head that you'll end up a spinster now.
You gaze out to sea and think of all the salt
caught in seams of clothes, then of love,
then salt, then love, then salt, but the wind is
pulling in the night and suddenly you must
find a book to sleep in before it gets dark.
But Moonchild, if you ever grow tired of me,
just say it's love and you can't help it
and I'll understand.