Monday, November 7, 2011

Yes, I'm a beast (and I feast when I conquer)

Tonight I am hungry.

Tonight I wrote out of rage.
And love.
And fear.
And guilt.

I got out about 2 1/2 solid pages.
Beginning to clear the brush out of the way of my fire.
I will burn this shit down!
And I won't last on kindling.
I need cold, hard, wet boughs.
So much arrogant timbre to reduce to ash.

Still hungry.

(you gave me strength, gave me hope for a life time)

How could you let yourself down like this?
How did I help with that?
Why didn't I see beyond myself?
(I'm a bitch)
How could I not see beyond myself?

Tonight I tried to write a distance between my success and your failure.
(I can feel myself giving up)
I tried to project myself, into words, into a future where I write myself out of the pain of this attachment.
(this time...)
But, I have no taste for such efforts.

A hunger that begins to eat itself.
(Alone, all these riches...)

Where are you?
(I drove for miles)
Did I bury you?
In what?
the sloppy cement of expectations?
the moist soil of intimacy?
the ungiving steel of knowledge?
(I never was satisfied.)

Did I fuck you up?

No amount of pages write away this gnawing question.
No distance is global enough.
No pop song reassures.
A hunger that cannot be exorcised.

Here, then:
the pyre of my ambition.
(to find myself)
In the flames of a memorial?

Is it only possible to honor you in the form of a sacrifice?
(can't silence these voices in my head)
A past in need of redemption.
(('save me'))

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