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Array
(
[sid] => 160924
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => tiny trinkets. . .
[time] => 2010-07-03 13:29:52
[hometext] => To be occupied or conquered is nothing - to remain is all. . . Anne Sexton
[bodytext] => better. . . to be gone better. . . to be dreaming in colour better. . . a pause. . . than no sound. . . at all better. . . understood. . . than sheer absence of what was y o u & I we will not expect our fathers. . . their ghosts or their other worldly counsel, we'll not notice the loss, pouring into the big boots spilling over. . . forgetful of what we've donned yes, each of us enveloped in our seperate distractions 'grapple with what we thought we could not. how do you measure distress do you calculate these things at all? m a y b e t h a t m i r r o r. . . i s. . . t o o s h a r p in my dreams our colours are manifest everything. . . is f r a g i l e & the struggle, surely does not match what should be missed. . . better. . . to be occupied better. . . the impossible attempt better. . . hoping for the best. . . sheltering the worse better. . . to strain for sound or trinket, any swaying in the breeze &. . . was the assassin stained in my breast. . . or yours. . . that paling, ambitious bird, that frail dark. . . ness that small hibernater. . . spilling black art appalling & consecrating the tiny misfits that we'd become was the fault, then prescribed. . . perhaps ordained. . . unavoidable. . . cutting out each sorghum eye of our very storms cutting deeply into not each other but our own harrowed symptoms. I feel this sophisticated affliction in soundless bones in rain-drenched, contemplative afternoons in the grinding sorcery of solitude & you should know it echoes your sophist gylph your somewhere soul that indelible stroke. . . as sought-after soothing tingles in the air, mere space glimmers between the murmur of a sonneteer & gentleness better. . . to be painless better. . . to dream sunsets better. . . y o u & I we'll dance seven preludes, in dark s o u l. . . cavernous we'll radiate mint julep toasts. . . to ones who can't quite recall. . . who never knew or thought to who did not witness our Icarus-like tendencies with pain or life or the strange, hypothecated hearts, we're now so afraid to pledge. we'll take inventory of blessings. . . yes. . . yes, forgetting. . . sometimes as laughter becomes shameless stale ideas become parade, manna for the mind-feast hysteria will dissipate into iambic terms better. . . to be stained better. . . to invite laughter better. . . to tingle, dangerously better. . . to be. . . than not to be &. . . I. . . recall your rosewater eyes forlorn, in some forgotten, baby picture a place of peeling now where truths are spat. . . from universal ties when stranger limbs than legs & grasping become the tale-tale signs of orbits, we'd forsaken. & I'll attempt if only in my mind that reconciliatory dance in chambers of time & appreciation with gesturings of all I am or will ever be spilling past rotund speech to coalesce in the shadows of our apocrypha pulling swollen promises from the dust-bowl of their deaths pulling empty insides out & coaxing every colour to choke the madness from our flowering minds. . . but they won't scream the scars away only soothe the burning blanks & perhaps. . . we'll realize what we missed. . . better. . . to be. . . than not to be [comments] => 5 [counter] => 250 [topic] => 52 [informant] => elle [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => goodbyepoetry )
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