The boy done wrong again
For there you are
ought of something
and look at walking
at nothing
in particular.
Hang your head in shame and cry your life away
Never feel guilty or
slight the sight
of the maneuver
you broached breeching.
The boy done wrong again (II)
I had not thought of it
- thinking slowly -
as to why we worried
if at all.
Hang your head in shame and cry your life away (II)
An accumulation of clothing
left in a hamper
tossed with a simple
cinnamon stick
for now
Are you ok now?
(two letters)
Are you ok now? (II)
(two letters, with reservations)
On Saturday I was an angel shining fair
Jonny jumped on Tuesday
and relinquished a proper
pouncing and firmed
the face,
accordingly.
You shone louder, longer
A spunk sputtering fact.
You put my shine to shame
a one – driving =
screaming at such
echoes like pieces
put together as much.
Put me to shame now
The memories
like selves
on shelves.
Put me to shame
And a mother
a mother
another thing
to worry about.
What is it I must do to pay for all my crimes?
$2.59 (plus tax)
What is it I must do?
Round and
around the
window beating
a heart like breaking
your beat,
your metronome
being,
all but broken
now.
I would do it all the time
I didn’t
want
to hurt
so, like,
don’t
hurt me
and I’ll
just do the same.
All I wanted was to sing the saddest songs
In pieces it goes and goes
and goes. . .
If somebody sings along I will be happy now
After all
we were
all a better thing
bested in bed
and the other places
you said we were.
The woodland spring will put the darkness from your thinking
I was thinking about
Liza Minnelli
(and you were
too).
If this town's your sinking ship
Walls lifting,
making horrible
the stable stance we arise.
A first retainer,
mine by hers.
Then you know where to jump
They put stoppers up
on the bridge
and nowadays
it’s fine.
Talking dirty, for a hobby it's fine
And I say a “fuck me forward in the mouth”
is fine by me.
So pour another glass of wine
I anonymously spoke your name
(also anonymously).
I'll think of England this time
When I think of England,
I think of childhood
and cassette tapes
and what they showed me
on the PBS.
All I wanted was to sing the saddest songs (II)
Lurid candles like walls
constructing Cassandra.
If somebody sings along I will be happy now (II)
He pushed me behind his woe.
I understood,
and didn’t push back.
