I am brimming. A’poised upon the balcony
Of women, to touch and fiddle their malicious lips
Cried down, winter meltdowns annexed
By my feet, oggling the surreptitious fantasies
Of mills upon the swollen horizon.
It blabbers dirty secrets and musthaves, agony,
St Agnes rotting in her deceased mind,
What more crave are you looking for?
It’s not enough; agility is ruptured immeasurably
As if it’s springed from under the bed
With a sharp ungroomed finger.
Let me out, I cry to you, let me breathe,
Explode the sunshine, like a clerk ,
Snide creased bella donnas behind the desk.
Carved, settled, burlesque,
I am tainted, stunted, bosom-less, forgiven.
| love the ending of this piece...St. Agnes, martyred at 12---no chance to grow into a woman...|
"let me breathe" too often misspent youth stifles adulthood...or abuse at an early age doesn't allow for someone to grow up without being tainted..it's like the spirit is martyred at a young age...we go out onto that balcony thinking of a jump---
another really deep, insightful piece from you.
|| Posted on 2011-07-04 00:00:00 | by jacoberin | [ Reply to This ] |