HOME LIFE
Sweetheart I'm not finding much except
your death behind this curtain. 'I love
my house,' I hear you say. Gedding and
Bagger sit like two brand names on the
shelf of malarkey you keep. Even the
dog makes a soiled motion towards
both finish and ending - an otherwise
dull commotion towards a finish we
all face and each can see. There is a
lethal dose in the cabinet - 'always,'
you tell me, 'always and always kept
at the ready.' Odd, how, like some
cold-war spy of a LeCarre novel, you
live your life secret and sly. Occam's
Razor, however, (you must remember),
isn't something you shave with or use
to cut your wrists. Oh well, I digress, and
- I need here to admit - you are otherwise
quite sweet. What faces your wall is a
mirror, turned wrong way over, sweet
one, for sure. There's nothing to reflect;
just an otherwise dull commotion.
Sweetheart I'm not finding much except
your death behind this curtain. 'I love
my house,' I hear you say. Gedding and
Bagger sit like two brand names on the
shelf of malarkey you keep. Even the
dog makes a soiled motion towards
both finish and ending - an otherwise
dull commotion towards a finish we
all face and each can see. There is a
lethal dose in the cabinet - 'always,'
you tell me, 'always and always kept
at the ready.' Odd, how, like some
cold-war spy of a LeCarre novel, you
live your life secret and sly. Occam's
Razor, however, (you must remember),
isn't something you shave with or use
to cut your wrists. Oh well, I digress, and
- I need here to admit - you are otherwise
quite sweet. What faces your wall is a
mirror, turned wrong way over, sweet
one, for sure. There's nothing to reflect;
just an otherwise dull commotion.
1 comment:
Another erudite poem that I understand I think. Something about April that brings the suicidal out. Renewal and all that crap.
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