It's a bothersome thing, emotion.
One man finds joy in the simplicity of it, of the stomach-twisting, and the warm-cold chill of it that creeps up your arms and releases to make feathery wisps of your hackle. The other broods and ponders and makes foggy maps of the grey, in-between areas of it. I admit that I'm a bit of a cartographer, but I wish I were the blind fool I put on. I wish I couldn't see how frozen-in-time we are. How the perfection, the squares in square holes -- the absolute -- hangs over our heads like the pillow of Damacles. She imagines it may be stuffed with iron bars, cleverly masquerading as everything she wants.
After that night, my thoughts lie with Schroedinger. Perhaps that pillow is as much a sensuous marshmallow of downy fluff as it is, at once, a brick of sharp glass and lemons. I, mistakenly, cut the rope on my end of the pillow. She, as always in our miniature relationships (which, at this point, have taken on the lifespan of one fruit fly after another), helped me to sew it back with reinforced steel-wool.
I'm worried now that I won't have the energy to find a hacksaw if the opportunity arises and her fear of substance gives way to curiosity. Will I be willing to let the thing drop on us -- or am I become my own worst fear: caution.
A POEM on SNIPS and SNAILS
Ive a sneaking suspicion
my snips have been replaced
with spice.
Probably paprika.
One man finds joy in the simplicity of it, of the stomach-twisting, and the warm-cold chill of it that creeps up your arms and releases to make feathery wisps of your hackle. The other broods and ponders and makes foggy maps of the grey, in-between areas of it. I admit that I'm a bit of a cartographer, but I wish I were the blind fool I put on. I wish I couldn't see how frozen-in-time we are. How the perfection, the squares in square holes -- the absolute -- hangs over our heads like the pillow of Damacles. She imagines it may be stuffed with iron bars, cleverly masquerading as everything she wants.
After that night, my thoughts lie with Schroedinger. Perhaps that pillow is as much a sensuous marshmallow of downy fluff as it is, at once, a brick of sharp glass and lemons. I, mistakenly, cut the rope on my end of the pillow. She, as always in our miniature relationships (which, at this point, have taken on the lifespan of one fruit fly after another), helped me to sew it back with reinforced steel-wool.
I'm worried now that I won't have the energy to find a hacksaw if the opportunity arises and her fear of substance gives way to curiosity. Will I be willing to let the thing drop on us -- or am I become my own worst fear: caution.
A POEM on SNIPS and SNAILS
Ive a sneaking suspicion
my snips have been replaced
with spice.
Probably paprika.