(no subject)

[naien]

this was a pastiche i did for english last year. this is me: imitating neruda. yeah, right.


The wide-eyed
scissors
opened and closed,
bit, ate,
a ragged hole,
stared
agape
at
its wake,
around it
worms of thread
writhed,
accused
the scissors,
"massacre, genocide,"
in the heaps
of discarded creation,
handiwork holocaust,
strewn around
the wide-eyed
child with chrome jaw,
lay open mouthed
at
its wake,
cotton Atropos,
not seeing,
tasting
the
weave
rent to lint,
lent to intimidation
father
knows
best,
so better
not together
worse apart
and
frightened they
curl.
Amid the rows
never was it such torture
as under the gun,
cut
this and that
no if
and
but
it goes on without saying
no speaking
no tongue
to speak of,
just open jaws,
open eyes,
ravishing silks,
blends,
scintillating,
instigating,
but still
accused
"ogre,"
ochre
where the cut's blood
dried,
but no one notices
on the floral pattern,
so,
cut,
no room for
thread.
The worms
still worry,
left out
in the cold,
the scissors
scythe,
sigh,
gnash,
but the
dress
is
done.

i'm thinking my old stuff is going to inspire me. this is it: not helping whatsoever. my really old stuff just depresses me. jesus.

give me a muse.

oh, wait.

give me a muse that i can touch.

there we go.