"My true love hath my heart and I have his." —Sir Philip Sidney I wish that you could wear my eyes as yours, And with contortions, bare before your glass, Examine with a long and lingering pass Each crack and crevice—all your naked pores; Observing every coiled inch of coarse And curly hair...each stroked and handled ass- et...tidbits licked and flicked...the dark pink gas Valve winking at the finger that taps, then bores. . . . . . For were you so to see your every part, With these two eyes—so eager to record The paradise behind each teaseful blink— You'd see beyond the mere vanilla kink: You'd see what I in words could not impart: You'd see just how completely you're adored. 8-------->
I play your track again. It hits a scratch And skips—a scratch and skips—a scratch and skips— And skips forward through the scratches patch.— It plays, then hits another scratch and trips Backward—and trips backward—and trips backward— It drives me fucking nuts! I hit STOP. “Stop!” I say aloud.—I get shellacked and lacquered. Memories fall away. I let them drop. I play no tracks while I record another With balance all a-tilt, with foamy burps, With clumsy stumbles, sloppy sips and slurps. I pass out, wake up,—find I didn’t bother To press RECORD! And then I press it—PLAY: Your scratched-up track begins another day. 8--->
I want a woman with perfect charms And infinite allures. I'll never lower my standards, Though she'll have to lower hers. 8--->
I wake up, bowl up some Pops, log onto gmail, And focus on that spot that’s gonna show The inbox tally……God! It runs so slow When all ya wanna see is one new email! The bright screen burns my bloodshot eyeballs’ gaze. It burps the gmail page in bits and chunks. I see the number,—same as yesterday’s. My hope—like yesterday’s hope—slumps and flunks. I knew that number’d prob’ly leave me flat, And junk the day before it really started, (And justify that rope I shopping-carted), But I had to check. And while you prob’ly chat With guys, I’ll check my inbox, broken hearted, In thirty minutes…and thirty after that…… 8--->
Poor, broken-hearted Abel Spleen Beneath a streetlight casts a shadow. He'd hoped to find a sunny, green Elysian meadow. Barely a man, at sweet sixteen He's gone where none who love him can follow. He drank his cup of bitter teen In one large swallow. Where he has gone,—to what demesne,— (If we in life are ever rooted), Is all conjecture very mean, And much disputed. He's gone, and yet he still is seen Suffering love's disdain and panging: Poor, broken-hearted Abel Spleen Is dead weight hanging. 8---> *Tilbury Town E.A. Robinson's fictional American Town where shit happens.
When thou art gone away Forlorn Am I, and every day I mourn. 8--->
Since I would rather die than live without you, I oughtta show your boyfriend what I've written about you. 8--->