#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook parp

Love, it is love, once again love.
Sorry I didn't mean... if you're busy
I was just saying how frustrating it is
to read. The moon blazes fire, burns
in yearning majesty of love's lost return:
in turning, burns, the returning still.

Oh but whites are just as bad; slave.
She cuts the conversation. Lights a cigarette
with a Vesta, The phosphor somehow suits
her luciferian nature. Everything she says
is fashionable beyond the sake of comfort
and nowhere, to her disappointment can be found
a single reference in the bible to a single shit.
To a unitarian effluent indulgence;
of God's omniscience;
in a trinity if wind and stars and nihilism.

And why the rose, she wants to know
why the rose: why not, why not
the daisy or the daffodil or the cat.

And if God shits does it really deny love.
For the sake of compassion,
and all that it sacred,
let the creator of all things; shit.
It's pure misogamy.

Sorry I didn't mean... I was just saying
its frustrating if you're busy, to read;
just saying. And why the moon
why hang our hat upon reflection.

Does what we see in the mirror shit.
Shit, shit, shit, there I said it.
You said I wouldn't.
Said I couldn't.
Shit, shit, shit, there I said it again,
wearing a crucifix, with fingers crossed.
You said I shouldn't.
Again.

It's hard to smoke with this gap in my teeth.
You have to pull harder.
The weeds of emotion creep out, around,
perhaps we could kiss, burn our lips,
perhaps not - not in this weather;
with the moon still up.
Madness.

I'm sorry, but it is a serious point
and smooth:
who made love when it mostly shit
and madness;
in glaring reflection of a shitless future.

Lighting a cigarette with matches
is to journey into the past,
with five minutes cut from the future,
in the present eight minutes of consumption.
It's science.

Again we apologise, again and again:
for these abstinences of understanding
again.

Again, I didn't mean sorry: again.

Sorry I didn't mean... if you're busy
I was just saying how frustrating it is
to read. Again. I didn't mean sorry...
how frustrating if you're busy. I say
I was just reading again, I say sorry
again, again, sorry again.

le feu c'est margin de lune entent
concord la lune une feu
mes tout sept pas mon encore
la lune
que quelle ca des sondre
renault et camois ca blanc