Warning: Series of half-ramblings and mutterings the other night when I decided not to sleep. Although there is meaning, if you feel like looking.
It is either the dark flannel
Or your skin
Or the green grass when it is winter and
Everything is just a little faded.
That silly little band-aid still
Quiet on my bed.
As if it's screaming would resurrect your ghost.
(But I'll still laugh just like
and under the greyest skies)
There is a certain myth
Naming of the stars
As if that would make them any more real.
There is an avalanche outside my doors
If I could be buried under so much sleet,
Would I still be human? Still
Supple under the serpentine rivulets of
The mirror broke today and I
Cried in black-turtlenecked sobs.
It's nights like these
When Jack the Ripper's in my basement
(basement, head, same difference)
Doorknobs melt against the strain of
Red-rimmed eyes and
Something pops along the hall
I wonder if I'll die tonight.
The dream is fresh as the
Tiger-striped paper-clip against these
Tumbled on my doorstep while the
Little man asks me what the weather's like in
And in these dreams, Greenland is yellow-mossied-brown because the grass has
Fallen into falling again in
Prelude to Winter.
But the rivers are warm as summer
Because that is
Will always be
The way of rivers
Though there is still that
Paper-clip (yeah, just you try and clamp me down, you
Try—but not to succeed for you
Should know better than anyone
That these tigers, here
Would laugh at your
Which is small and
Still as yet a dream.
If rock bottom is a place
Wouldn't there be something under,
Even if it's nothing?
For even nothing needs a name.