on this rock round this star through space and time I pretend to orbit you— another hurtling speck Advertisements
You are afraid I will become everything you ever dreamed of, and you can’t leave me, either. I am bound …
All art is a lie.
The truth is far more terrible
than any tragedy or horror
to be performed before us.
Art is a polished shield
through which Perseus
viewed the Medusa
to avoid her petrifying gaze…
before lopping her head off
I can only approach you
this poem is my polished shield
and you are my Medusa,
though I would never dare attack you—
just gaze in woe at your beauty
knowing I can never have you.
But even this is not true:
the truth is far more terrible again.
The truth is bleak; devoid of imagery,
and you do not look in my direction.
my heart is a ventriloquist… “I love you!” thrown over a shoulder “excuse me?” I approach to clarify… a face …
Fold into me; I am open. Open to me; I will fold. Advertisements
today I just wanna drink strong coffee, and suck your face in a park somewhere… maybe eat some club sandwiches, …
a tiny hedgehog leapt upon the broad back of a white horse, and he rode it out of the fog! …
Calling out to you. Do you hear me? I’m calling out to you! You hear me. Advertisements