Monday, January 21, 2008

The Spaces Available In My Heart Are More Important Than My MySpace...

I'm packing on new days like a fine layer of moth wing dust.
Please treat me gently.
I may seem ugly.
I might be beautiful in your hands?
Maybe a delicacy to some in other parts of the world.
Or a pest.
I can fly when I want to.
I can bite you when you sleep.
You can easily squash me, smoosh me or preserve me in a jar.

I'm attracted to your glow, though.

Be gentle, fucker.


Grampa said...

I'm really lovin' the poetry of the last few posts. You must be one hurtin' mutherfucker to write that.

My dad was a poet once upon a time.

He tells me whenever I feel that heartache, that loss, that emptiness - THAT is when you write poetry.

He said, "Hell, there's not one single poem written by a happy person that's worth a fuck!"

Sorry you're hurtin', but at least keep writing, here or following the old ways of parchment and papyrus.

I've been doing a lot of both lately.

Be well.

Boz said...

I knew you were gay for me, but I didn't know you were this gay!