Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Love Story

"I was born in a taxicab, I'm never goin' home" --Tom Waits

Her hands are not your hands--

No more forgiving than a statue's,

They abrade and tear me

Until the sheets are bloody with my misery.

Her eyes are not your eyes--

No more soulful than elevator buttons,

I am locked in here screaming until the morning comes.

Each day is like a driverless car

Circling backward on itself in unstoppable blind murder;

Pregnant with a memory,

I give birth to a fever...

I sweat and shudder

'Til it breaks.



  1. Now this poem is scary, sweetie,
    you reached deep.

  2. Every now and then I dip into a dark well for a poem. I began this one with just the line about being pregnant with a memory, but after that it evolved in a different direction than most of mine, to be sure.

  3. Pregnant with memory, I love that!

    And when this profound line informs
    one of my poems, you will be the
    first to know -

    A memory often is like a being,
    held within us, birthing all
    sorts of "things".

    You're something very good


Spirit, what do you wish to tell us?