THE RUGS ARE JUST
SANE SERAPES
(to confusion)
So, there's a moment of plain confusion when
the moon comes peeking in the window at me.
What do I do but blink back to see : lethargy
and it's monstrous brother not-caring. 'I'm not
a moon-person myself; no surprises, it's always
the same, hanging up there like a gum-drop in
a battlement oasis. What's the sky anyway
except something we can't hold?'
-
Now I'm through with blood-letting, and crying
out in a screaming anger too. I'm through with
kissing - though I'd surely like kissing you. I
may re-varnish this table, but only if I get the
urge; it's really quite OK the way it is.
-
There was a cafe girl once who used to serve
me coffee; oh a bundle of my joy she was. Then
she killed herself, in some other place, and I
don't now why it was - because she was sorry
or blue. I guess. They held her a wake on Baldtop
Mountain, and we all threw her ashes into the
wind, which blew them all back on us.
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