I never have to get married.
-See this?
I can't even remember where I got it.
It's gold. Someone gave it to me....
I guess
I remember.
It
was a guy who liked me–
he made it. A hippie goldsmith.... I liked
him, too.
It couldn't have worked; he wanted
to live with me....
I'm going to give it to my
first future infatuation, the first new girl
I leave: "My darling (what was your name?), this
is for you
to
remember me by.... So long!"
Nothing to lose but my chain!
-One less to carry.
I could write a good poem about that;
or a
novel .
..
MY LIFE
&
LOVES.
You know that poem,
"They flee from me who sometimes did me seek"?
-Sir Thomas Wyatt. He knew what he was
talking about.
Or maybe
I flee from them.
...
Both; it's about the same.
Or Shakespeare: "Farewell,
thou art too dear for my possessing... "
They
knew.
I don't think a good poem has been written
in a hundred years.
What the hell do I care
about some broad's period? or some guy's
fucking hard-on? All these fucking ego trips
and masturbation fantasies.
Or else
anemic iambic pentameter academic
exercises. No one-NO ONE-writes
about important things anymore.
