6024. INTENSITIES OF HELL

INTENSITIES OF HELL

Intensities of Hell can be like Heaven, 

if only you live your life alone : waiting for

the caramel budge to break inside the oven,

where your head last surely sat. All those

women I used to know, doing their best

Sylvia Plath. To scream 'Daddy', to scream

'Daddy', at this and at that.

-

We are all monsters when the skin gets peeled 

away. Every thank-you fades to go-away. I cater

to the needs of everyman : or whoever that is right

now for whom the wind is wild and blowing.

There goes the rooftop. There goes the shed.

-

I watch this fine-boned woman sitting for tea;

she is thinking she's still in Schraft's, like Audrey

Hepburn would be. It's all a foil, and her chiseled

features send me money just looking. I wonder,

inside her head, what her Daddy-Monster is.

-

So then, Jane of Lexington Avenue, kiss me in your

dreams if you'd like, or spit out my name with the

drudgery of some exploitative moment that I am.

Chase me until I fly away. Just call me 'Daddy' today.

-

Hear the chimes of the Westside church. They ring, and

they peal, they sound and they hammer. There's nothing

to go away from; every sound is its own redundance.

All those intensities of hell, so startling they are.