冰猫侦探社

When in love Do as lovers do. Liver, or heart  Spare no part!  Touch the sheets. Touch the skin. All enclosed  In a sense of kith.  Where selves cede  Bonds throng. Where cores bare, Shimmering feels keen. 

Come thither, Follow the hand. Can it see,  Your harried face? To the chamber Now you inch. Stone or gas? Make a guess! Noose that cannot be  But for the funny-faced. Short tongues shan’t be Bothered with the final itch. Every drudge has now its place.  Quick make a wish! If the next must be near, Would it’d never be this! 

Finally, the last line went up in the air; distraction to puffs,   palling. Read runes of Stained fingers, Cat’s sideeye, Rippling geography on the marble; Nothing betrayed. In the cold demitass, Geometries Laid out The driving from the Divine. Sped   May it be. Sped, sped, sped!

A wrinkle from when I don’t smile Reveals more now that I pout! Youth is best before use. Every whiff of air leaves a mark.

My couplets are crude. My eyes  bleared, with strain and sigh. Long night ground colors. Darker than cased blood, Light as fish eggs. I wonder where can be found some driftwood  waving a dying hand. Maybe at my bedside? Clean cut over slogging saw, Death better than doubt. A grand ending gives everything A punch can.

First day in a new year,  clean as linen; assured as a scissor cut. Cups crumbs in the curve, unfolds till drum-tight; Trims odds and  ends till nothing left.  For desire doomed to despair the room is made.  A wish in curlicue is your wage. For a substanti al soul, no cure is but spared. In all its solidity, a drag will devour you one-piece one-bite.

I’m sick of not knowing.   A life bereft of surprises, In that I revel with tremor. The calendar  shudders at any touch. November is all but over. For his own life he fears. Confident the day stauches a rivulet of possibilities, I want to shove the knife And carve out of me a fountain of roses. To see the landscape, whatever is running under this hide. I want sobering cuts.   They give me a tease. I want peeled truth.   They dismiss with a tickle. Never will I thrill at anything   in a baby-proofed cell. A baby’s life is locked in itself. A baby’s pain gives motive for wonder As if pain is a novelty. The unwrapping grows wearisome. Doubts begin to envelop me   That the wrap is the gift. If I wreathe a garland about my neck, That, at last, might stir a ripple in me.

My father gulped vine From a bowl, Scrabbled four grapes  only From a glass In his lonely carousing Near dawn. I counted As one tumlbed After another, Another and The other .  At what I didn’t understand I giggled. At the wall, The drunk man pelted his rage, Gathering wool under the stain When the day broke.  Lilac kisses in the chalk, bedded  violently ;  Where my future to be found: A sour-scented splatter.  My wailing took march; My mother's howling strung to a melisma. Once where had bloomed innocence Cannoned  a great war.

1.  I always wear my hair short. I wonder how it feels to let it sprawl. And I become sickened with dread for not knowing - would I like a nice mane for myself? Now I understand why people paint on their skin, puncture layers of tissues and run rings through the nose. They just want to know. 2.  Now it’s months since I got my hair cut. When my fingertip skims over the end of it, I, startled, seem to have met another self. 

I want to be loved so let me. But not by many. I want to be heard so let me.  But not once for all.  I want to be rude so let me. Even once too often. In the gleaming teeth I see the world beaming  And myself wailing.  Still I want to be loved  Just by you. Maybe. Just about enough.  Maybe. Maybe.