Saturday, 7 May 2011

The fruits of my freewriting today


I don’t really know
What’s going on moonstone.

Everybody and nobody is waiting for you.

Your musical score
All threadbare converse and no substance.

The pictures.
They didn’t come out; suggesting that there’s something
About the anti-matter of us
That is a symptom of the disorder.

Maybe you’re indignant
But thinking that way is not going to help.
It could force me to think of you as human
But I cannot talk to you.
I can speak at you.
I can fuck you,
But you are never there.

© Holly Boyden 2011

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