This Is Not Art

Poetry to Split the Social Order

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Love

My tender heart is screaming,
screaming while her hands bleed like christ because she suffers for everyone elses sins,
their shyness, their sadness, their loss is all hers to bear and carry like a limping soldier,
his buddy over his back and his eyes all popping out of his sockets,
she is in a cage and she is scared if she steps out she will have to run naked through the streets and be torn apart by the laughter and the glass that litters the world as if it sprung up like grass or flowers,
while others stand around with mouths hanging open and lips peeled up, exposing their candy pink gums and teeth like razors
her soul is a frightening dream where everything bleeds into everything else and she doesnt know what is real,
her mind flashes nightmare streets and car crashes and bloody afternoon tea and alone figures that are not poetic in the least, just sad and sorry and hurting. Her creamy belly is gushing everything all the time like her words that cant come out and her eyelashes that bat beautifully at the sun,
Her hands are all wounded, her umbilical cord was cut before she stepped a foot on the cold tile in that flourescent room where they beat her as soon as she stumbled out of the womb into this place where everyone is starving.
She is so alone, she is so crazy mad sometimes,
she thinks she has cancer she thinks she is dying she wants to die she doesnt know how to die she wants to whither she wants to bloom and nothing is allowed,
just gray and dusk and weeping

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