(04-13-2016, 05:59 AM)bedeep Wrote: Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day? Okay, Let's Go There
I could compare this migraine
to a summer's day, that stinking hot day
the power went out for hours and the house
cooked and steamed and the only relief
I could find was to go to the basement
and lie down on the still cool concrete floor
and not move. If I could call it relief.
That outage lasted about as long
as this particular migraine has, and though
the pain was less, the full-body suffering
was commensurate. Of course the ice was
closed away in the sacrosanct freezer
and there was no turning on a fan.
The pressure of no relief, never knowing
how long you have to suck it up --
yep, on a misery scale, it does compare
quite fairly. I don't know which I'd choose
if I had to.
Maybe a heart attack.
A bit of an aside, yesterday the weather service here recorded the highest temperature in our city ever recorded, which is about 36 degrees Celsius. Hooray!
TEEN ANGST
1
I love the trembling upon release --
the tingling up and down the spine
turned flashes of light, lightning
pushing down pulling up knees elbows
whole body pulsing convulsing with
excitement ah perfect relaxation
squirts of milk impregnating empty air.
2
I wonder what you became
when I told you about that dream I had
where I was on top, and you were weeping scratching screaming,
only -- that was a dream,
and only a dream, right? No control --
Now, I enjoy myself alone
with your picture
in the hour between Ambien and sleep,
where the mind reaches heights the waking won't allow
and lows far below limbo.
3
We were never involved, I think,
not even as friends, I seemed so distant --
all of you knew me only by reputation,
that I was a mystic (or maybe just a weirdo),
and either you were drawn or offended.
You were offended. At first, you sought to correct me
like a child, teasing me, disrupting my routines, dissecting my anxieties,
then you elevated your artform, turned filia into Freud,
becoming first a tease, then a disruption, then a dissection,
until you learned the truth, that you could deal the most harm
simply by ignoring me.
Of course, I took this
more like a blessing -- women who were not drawn to me
would, in going my way, only impede my progress
in music, painting, language, poetry:
all the arts with which one draws women.
Not photography -- I couldn't understand it,
how one's supposed to celebrate his subject
without changing them.
4
My picture of you -- it's your yearbook photo,
where you bear your widest most honest smile
in your slightly upgraded regulars.
I suppose that was the photographer's advantage,
that he was new to our crowd
yet never played the mystery, that he came there
only to do his job,
take beautiful portraits
of beautiful young bitches.
5
Nightly, I imagine you
compelled by some invisible hand
to slowly remove your clothes,
first your pants, to leave your greatest treasure the ass exposed,
then your shoes -- never the socks, which always add texture to these affairs --
then finally your shirt, though not removed completely,
just slid up to allow for more vigorous rubbing.
And then after a minute of touching, feeling, tasting,
teasing, disrupting, dissecting, I'm in. Occasionally,
maybe every Monday,
"slowly" becomes madly,
the minutes of pleasure are skipped,
and you weep and scratch and scream along the way.
This excitement always denies the Ambien
its true job. As the hours pass, I'm left to think --
what is real? what is fake?
She is a victim, in my mind -- of my mind --
so is she a victim in waking life?
Or perhaps it's all justice, of a sort --
whatever the truth.
6
And then I rise up sink low to limbo again
but with the cold fiery hands wrapped around my chest
grown tighter, heavier.
