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Claudia Cardinale (Neitzsche, Pro Wrestling and Oral Fixation)

September 13, 2013

onehundredandsix

This isn’t how it was meant to be.
Late train, late train.
Reality runs on lines.
That terminate far from poetry.
And all this sunken sermonizing.
Has taken the air of cliche.
A trite birthday card verse.
A broken covenant.
Growing bitten.
Growing terse.
Liberté beneath the Vichy government.
It got better and then it got worse.
What repetition, Mother.
What irony!
The Emperor’s entire fucking wardrobe.
In all its invisible finery.
A memory I no longer recognize.
Spread too thin across time.
I don’t even remember.
The smell of your skin.
The colour of your eyes.
Agony isn’t too fine a point.
There is no music played.
No sculpture cut.
No word written.
And God knows, I’ve tried.
To adequately describe.
Just how beautiful you are.
You’ve been there.
Every time I’ve smiled.
Every time I’ve cried.
The sound of traffic.
Naked.
8 a.m in the morning.
Bending to pick up your dress.
I only need to close my eyes.
I guess I do remember.
Strange summer sun.
Still shining through.
The dusty slats of November.
I know you’ll not forgive me.
For being so forthright.
You’d never stand the touch.
Pretend that it’s not there.
But before you tuck yourself in at night.
One thought.
What colour’s the hair you brush?

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From → Poetry

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