OK. Well, this is still somewhat semi-private I suppose. So, I'm putting this poem here because I don't know why. You don't have to read it. Blame
Amy, by the way, it's her fault for encouraging me.
City
Dear K,
I have decided that you are a disease
With your chicken scratch and funny canines
That, in short, devour my tissue
From noon to five am.
But you are buried under four inwardly curving
Island mounds, delivered in lilies and
Painfully retracted by the hands of
Skilled lesbian nurses.
They share your shade
By accident.
Dear K,
I am loaded into pink coffins at least once daily
And I find your virus has infected
Cleanly and with haste
My harbor of pearls, but only when I least
Expect and I think I'd welcome a torpedo.
Before the injection and going into remission
I am sponged with red towels, dried with
A bootstrap and hear your tidings
Vulgar and obscene
Like a side effect.
Dear K,
Can you hear how the crickets sing down there?
And do the mountains hold you like a dying
God, too old for the medicine, too late for the cure?
It seems that I am in Limbo
Where all good masturbating girls go
There aren't any coins here for
The ferryman, his price is in lipstick and a
Good Jimmy Choo but as I frolic in your
City with the zombies and picks, I'm not sure
That I want to cross.
Dear K,
I'm aware that you are capable of
Giving me six or seven pound tumors
Over the course of twenty years
Little cabbages to water and feed, they'll
Sizzle like bacon on Southern Sunday
Mornings leaving me fat and content
On certain occasions, until the tumors
Swell and pop like balloons or firecrackers
With a bang
They are teminal.
Dear K,
I have solace in knowing you infect unwillingly
And lack the power to tend your pretty
Flowers that take root too fast
I want to raise my late October tail and
Snag you with my venom
Until you die and rot and set me free
But we are hide and seek, you don't
Know that I am your victim
Exotic, oddly shadowed, and for that
I will never forgive you.
