OH MY GOD
I've left most everything behind : no friends
come to call, no messages are left. And I
don't mind; in this inquisition I will be neither
bad cop nor good cop. I just hate the routine.
-
Every little question makes me sick, and all this
living is a lie of doom. I read books, and get ill.
I write words, and try dying. I paint light, and
get darkness; every tube I've touched is a paint
a tinted shade of black. My God let this angel go.
-
Here are the colors of the rainbow - a system of
glide, an arc in the sky, the elisions of a hundred
words. I have the temperment of a clownish dove.
Oh my God, here I go again.
No comments:
Post a Comment