deepundergroundpoetry.com
Belinda
The library is an obsolete skeleton.
All gothic portraits and haunted
quilts. I say to the librarian
in her tight skirt, No, not romance,
not that pain. I’ve been smoking
a whole pack of cloves in a night.
Crying in the planetarium where
we traverse that black, beautiful
emptiness. How the word home
tastes like the red glow of VACANCY.
I’ll paint my mouth thin as a music
box dancer’s. Rename the constellations,
all the poisons while my yellow dress
slides to my feet. You wouldn’t believe
the sound it makes. 2:01 a.m. and
the pills with their names like planets,
a cat named after Paxil. The Luvox
blooming beneath my skin like love.
Their eyes on me like tongues.
All gothic portraits and haunted
quilts. I say to the librarian
in her tight skirt, No, not romance,
not that pain. I’ve been smoking
a whole pack of cloves in a night.
Crying in the planetarium where
we traverse that black, beautiful
emptiness. How the word home
tastes like the red glow of VACANCY.
I’ll paint my mouth thin as a music
box dancer’s. Rename the constellations,
all the poisons while my yellow dress
slides to my feet. You wouldn’t believe
the sound it makes. 2:01 a.m. and
the pills with their names like planets,
a cat named after Paxil. The Luvox
blooming beneath my skin like love.
Their eyes on me like tongues.
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