I hardly ever put my own poem drafts up here. This blog is, in many ways, an exercise in self-exposition. All my poems ever have been are little cliff overhangs, under which I can hide. Too decorative and encoded to feel anything but safe.
Today, I guess, I feel like retreating.
And, as I intimated in my post previous to this one, I really did have every intention of filtching that "tautology" line from Harvey. It's so good, it begs response. I have, in fact, epigram-itized it.
So, here's a draft of a prose poem that's probably (I dunno... maybe?) in conversation with this other poem I posted about a year ago:
Little jinx on a wet mount slide
Technically, “lonely me” was a tautology.
Say, you forget your suitcase at the airport. Scratch. You go to baggage claim; see it there, brimming a little --wombats, satin pink ribbons and adultery. You laugh at it and hail a cab. Your cab driver says, “lift your skirt.” Your cab driver asks how your thighs feel, naked, pressed against the cab seat as they are. You and your cab driver get really fucking high. You don’t have to be a pervert to recognize analogies with syringes. Li’l plunges, li’l pricks. Playing hard-to-get would be untrue. Lonesome you? Not so mercurial. Truer, the (anti-) body fights that which is foreign. This is all it ever is, isn’t it? How new lovers inoculate each other. What sweet, sweet skins we break. Rules, too, would be redundant. Inoculate me, then, baby. A little pathogen between friends can only fortify the ligatures. Even such bondage is not periphrastic, not ekphrastic, as I, in isolation.
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