quasi_sean

After a poetry reading--to those who did.


There are songs sang
that are made magnificent
when you see tears fall
off all the hearts in the room

& you start to read a
poem, a stanza of death maybe
that was painted on
a glass wall before the lights
went out & you stop--
& you cannot handle the manic pauses, the shaking & sluring

--oh, no pain deeper than that forced out to the strangers in the cafe, fed to them on a cracked wooden spoon so that it may taste as rusty stale to them

as it feels gripping your
lungs on those dry Sunday mornings--

& how wonderful to scream it out and watch it crystalize
& just for a moment

they're here, and
you're here, and
no breath like the last one

Have they now seen the first
of a hundred lives, turned
black, all for the same dark, soggy
reason?
felt breath like every other
but ours grows much colder w/every
new season.
The veins are getting purple
& April is the month to die

but dare they put their
arms around you,
dare they even think to try.

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I love Purple rain.