Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Barbara Anderson Haunts My Soul.

I'm not prepared to share every detail of the hive-like structure of my brain.
Wicked things are pounding savagely at the door.
If I were to speak frankly, trees, the fall, the aesthetic perfection of metamorphosis would crumble in my very image.
Fairy me from the vanity to better solitude. To less subtext. To fewer voices.
"I think you meant Ferry... but there's something so interesting in the..."

"Spiders and their webs find their way into every Goddamn poem in a college writing class!"
She was an inspired voice. Ridden hard by cigarettes and put away by a mediocre reception in third-rate rubbish - "But it's published goddammit and that means something!"
This is the way spiders make webs. Spiders make their webs in reminiscence and sappy goddamn nostalgia...
Spiders make their webs in longing for simpler times.
Spiders make their webs in over-used imagery - Think goddammit - there are goddamn jewels in there.

Somewhere amongst the webs.

Over distant hills I can see something fruitful.
There in the junk food beer casserole madness.

Sometimes it seems a simple shot in a lonely bathroom is the key.
Strong will like a wind - blowing like a goddamn hurricane in there.
Weak trees bend. Strong trees are upright.

A single lamp in a dark room - chain switch

Bulb flickers. Bulb flickers.

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