Thursday, March 13, 2008

When he dreams it must be of
Fucking dead things.
The closest his imagination
Can get, while pretending to live,
Is fucking his mother,
Is crawling back into her womb.

He writes about it
With such ecstasy and beauty,
That it becomes his sexual fantasy.
To really write, he had to feel each line.
I guess he needs material to get off to later.
I don’t need anymore detail about it.
That’s not why I write or what I’m into.

Maybe it helps him get the right words.
He has a hard time writing poetry
Because he has a hard time
Recognizing his feelings.
He’s emotionally illiterate.

I wonder if he dreams at all.
Or cares for talking. Or cares for beauty.
Or cares for the words people write.
Or the people who write them.
If so, why does he write so much?

I mean besides all those pictures.
Perhaps he loves himself most of all.
It’s sensitive, though he would deny that.
In that way, he is half-human.

So, this is worse than any metaphor
I could write. Or a story I could tell.
That’s why it's upsetting.