i have been two
acquainted with the night.
i know what it is
to sleep on a sofa. the patterns
and the curling
leaves
asunder and possible husband
and wife yelling
at each other.
today i read frank o'hara while sarah brightman was playing in the background. it's like white explorers with primitive music: i can't help but acknowledge the body sensation of what sarah brightman does with her voice. every finer sense wishes to rebel, but i can't deny, i just can't, what she does to my senses. and combined with frank o'hara, whose every second word rang on a nerve ending like a soviet on a beetroot... that little orange book was my own, my precious. i even considered stealing it, before i realized i was chicken.
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