lacuna wind

 
I think about things when I drift around art & poetry,
& general loneliness. I think about how women gave me a part
of themselves, so now they walk around with a hole in them &
the light shines right through it, the cold & the rain get in, &
maybe that’s when they think about me, how I did it to them.

misty Saturday girls who go by an alias, don’t want you to know
where they came from or who they go back to, but they lost
something sexual & maybe they find it in my dirty stories. I
become the set-up in a downtempo love affair, & since poetry
has no secrets, I write about her.  & her.  & her.

so that is the sordid library of my archive  –
lovers without names & poems all the same.

I get the usual dope from a seductive paramour: what kind of sex she
likes, what she’s willing to do for a man if he does certain things for her.
but there’s always a little mystery, a twist in her psyche, that she keeps
hidden. I figure it’s something that would make her less beautiful.

my old romances, my wars, my smallest tragedies: they’re carved into
the ridges & scars the years have bestowed on me. in the depths of my
brown eyes are the lies I’ve never been able to wash out.

if we f*ck, we’ll do it in the dark.
I don’t want you to look at my face…


(Art: Nobuyoshi Ararki)