The novel is going quite well

[rozk]

and there is more poem as well...



LOVE AND ART

My friends
of course
my friends were not impressed.
They watched us
watched me in pain.
Did not see her, saw my pain
over her.
I was too busy with my pain
to think of how they saw her.
Luxuriate
rolling on pain like a warm matress
pulling pain over me like feathers
exquisite barbs.
They listened
Might have yawned,
instead were entertained.
Pain was my performance and my jest.
I pulled out entrails wittily
they applauded, felt guilt with the applause
blamed her
blurred her.
She was
that dull little girl
what's all the fuss about
the monster reason for my pain
or Little Miss Fuck Everybody Up.
Or they used her
they mined her
goddess, androgyne, torturer, victim in torn nets
you read their books
she's everywhere, except she's not.
Not her
not the woman who'd repair a door in forty minutes
build a table in a day
dance all the night in heels.
Not the daughter, mother, sister.
They saw
what I showed them.
You see
what I show you.
She is not here.
Go look for her
but I don't know
where she might be
what she might be.
She is the object of my gaze
the matter of my verse
the loaded vein
I hack with pick and metre.
What we did then
I do again.
I do over.
She broke me, breaks me,
I mine her
mime her presence.
Traded harshnesses
of love and art
and there will be applause.

Comments

[papersky.livejournal.com]

You could be much creepier about it, like Robert Graves. But yes, it's what we all do.