With hyacinths in her hair, she thought she was modern,
Falling down to the abyssal plains of her bedroom floor at night,
The Rapture was never here--en fin della monde che noi li capitiamo, e' Io sento bene.
The poet disappears; this the discovery of our time,
Some poor schizo was saying last evening,
Her protection was all transparent, brittle and cracking,
And his manner just a bit off—Io ho bisogno dire qualcosa, primavera, sono stato uno troppodipendenzia, secondo, io sono stanco perche io dormo niente, e finamente, voglio vederti nudo.
Who are you talking to, up there, alone inside deep psychoanalytic rooms at night,
Some varying in temperature, others in perception,
To those ‘imaginary’ people, she says, and then in repeat.
Severe anhedonia and negative affective syndrome was ubiquitous,
Swallowing the right from the left, the good and the ugly—
The popular and the prude,
The interstellar Salvia nights, and the long path of bleakness—
Into another world, where, greedily she is consumed by all her devils.
He commented on her flower, it gave her chills of those before her,
Writing word-salad, neologisms made for a rainy day.
Obama Bin Ladin.
No comments:
Post a Comment