Diary of a White Virgin

August 11, 2011


As I recall I wrote this after reading the surrealist manifesto

And there was a girl involved. Sex seemed out the question. So your system was all plugged up. To displace some of that energy I wrote great logs of poetry. Bad poetry. But this piece isn’t bad. Its too abstract for my present tastes. But this was a young man. Frustrated and passionate.

……………………………………………………….

Diary of a White Virgin

 

Through the cracks in the wall. I can hear. The small talk rambling on in the hall. Shelley looked so frightful. When her bronze boy lover left. He left slamming the door. But the house was mute and deaf. I was smoking a cigarette. That put me on a wing. Torn curtains drool upon the streetlight. Shadows. An old dropping oak. Bent over so hollow like an old man begging. For care. And then forgetting why he’s there.

 

I tried to sketch your portrait but you stole my rock.

 

A roman circus passes my way. Eight days after Friday. Candlelight. Unknown voices. Soar to flame as I go dreaming.Down the street. Smoking. Drinking. Sucking the grass. Is smoke. Upon the factory’s heat. All the walls flee. You’re not impressed by their rout.

 

Breeze caresses the flame. Rubber. Careened off the streeet. Black shivering beds. Sighing. With the roll and scortch. Magic dawn flushes. The fury of the night stalls.

 

Laces on my boots. Cry. That it’s someone to pray to. Toothless sun laughing. At me. One eye’d night winking. At me. Walls are closing. Floor rising. I want to go up and touch your face. Dust drained from his skull. The caution signs are blind. Perfume swallows the air. Silence bleeds.

 

TIMBRE yells the vet. Before he mends the old hookers. Falling crotch. Lovers separate. And crawl into marble rabbit holes.

 

I saw the hardwood melt. Down upon your face. Against a bus stop. He leans. With his guns in his eyes.

 

Kissed a girl. Who didn’t want to be touched. Manufacture some hate. Aren’t you getting kind of stout?

 

Don’t you realize yourself. Conceited egg. Tonight I met Jesus. With a bottle of zing in his hand. A lonely elephant asked me today if I was a mirror. Of discontent.

 

We should all wear pink. & be forced to carry around portable sinks. Drenching darkness. Empress. Coca Cola clown. Onion blood baby blow me. Let me follow it down. I have sat inside my room. Placed my fingers in your wounds. Touched things smoother than moonlight. Seen you hide from the cruel dancers.

 

A spider weaves suicide. Across the moon. To hide the memory of a king. Who hung himself. One afternoon. One sticky afternoon in the seaweed. Beneath big blackman’s beach.

 

Spring lingers on sleeping under the snow.

 

Moses kissed all the virgins with rain. Gave them passports. Put them on cattle trains. One must please the customer.

 

DANCE LITTLE LADY. DANCE UNTIL YOUR FEET ARE THE FLOOR. DANCE UNTIL YOU CAN’T DANCE ANYMORE. DANCE LITTLE LADY. DANCE FOR US ALL. THERE’S NO TIME TO BE LEFT AT EASE. DANCE LITTLE LADY. DANCE WOULD YOU PLEASE.

 

My pride stood before me. In yellow. She was scawny. Naked. & sour. A tinge of resentment on her breath. Get outta here. I mean would pleases the room. I wonna thing about the love you gave me. But i don’t want to think about you.

 

Joann. I can hear my daddy’s poetry. Building standing naked. & faceless. Sounds of groaneding uncles . & their voices.

 

Legs are tied to my umbrella. I met a child in the back of the back room. She came wearing a badge. I lifted her latch. Burnt her on my minute steak.

 

I announced i was running. For God. & everybody gathered around. To ask why. Don’t get too close .I couldn’t handle an overdose.

 

Close your eyes. You’ll never go blind. Watch the seagulls fly in their cage. Broken beer bottles. In the grass waiting a victim. Lonely wrapped trapped in her canyon. A wooden waste back. Full of crawling hands. A crowd of a thousand breathing. A skinned woman. Desk and silver spoons. Choking. Her visions of you have kept her. Up through the night. She weeps like a tyrant…

 

through the cracks in the wall. I can hear the rambling on. Of small talk in the hall. Look at Michael trying…

 

My grudges she warms like white coals. I’m losing the beat.

 

What about the year of 56. When men breathed fire. And men threw sticks.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: