This was a protest of love against love. She became the hours she sat through knowing that what kept her awake could not be ended in dreams.
Dark holiness he is
A cavernous vacuum of mirrors and light
With open arms we allow in
resting before that secret space
a key hole
no molds known
These statues made of sand
born from his breast, in glass boxes we rest
on high steps
one step sometimes two steps deep
nearing his stone-
now properly seen
once just water and sand
now something pristine
His name was simple. Three letters. Her’s, nine. They were not of the same design, but instead divisible
Vera Zorina dances for a G.I’s dreams in a Star-Spangled Rhythm (1942).
HAPPINESS DOES NOT EQUATE COMPLACENCY
A GIVING UP OF SELF-
HAPPINESS IS MY BEST FOUGHT WAR
MY GRANDEST PRIZE
MY PUREST CREATION
MY TRUEST SALVATION
This was found in a dusty file. It was written when I was on the road. What do you tag something like this? Relationships? On the road? I will try all of the above. But what is it really about? It’s about how a woman is often the one to tag along. It is about how difficult it is to ask a man to do…
I suppose at the end of the day, all files get closed and locked in the same cabinet. Most accurately titled: HIM
Beads of sweat formed on her temples. They know, she told herself. Fear turns the skin translucent. The only visible remaining elements, purple lines running perpendicular. Like subway maps. She tried to smile, though couldn’t be sure her brain had transmitted the information correctly to the corners of her mouth.
Apparently I wrote this some time ago in relation to something ?
Thinkin of you today…
Damian Hirst. Ahead of the game.