For Eurydice / Michael McQuarrie

I blame post-modern writers
poets beats slammers
for every relationship problem
I've ever had

I blame the poems I absorb
every day about Nam vets
alcoholics addicts gangsters
nazis genocide homocide
suicide drugs poverty

I blame every poem I've ever read
about a tragedy
not because I don't feel tragedy
but because I've felt it,
cried over it until my tear ducts bled
and learned to fall in love with it

I want romance back
and I want it in poetry
and I want it now
but not in over-inflated language
comparing your eyes
to sparkling sapphires
or your nipples
to twin peaks of radiant desire

I want to read a poem about
and fall in love with
and I don't mean
the idea of you
the tragedy of you
but the actual you

but writers have fucked that up for me
and I've only fallen in love
with the idea of tragedy you bring
fallen in love with sitting on the porch
talking over Masoch, Delueze,
Henry and June in moonlight,
plotting new dimensions of Pain
to add
to Us

but what I really want on that porch
is to press my face into your split ends
and tell you how you smell,
like a georgia breeze rustling through pine straw
I want to lick your lips
just after you've exhaled
a breath of black clove
cigarette smoke
and tell you of the whispers
of cinnamon and ash I taste

but we're still talking about Anaias Nin
and you should know
when I interrupt and tell you this,
This is the way our relationship will end,
not with a bang, but a whimper,
that what I really mean is
I Love You

but those are the words your father used
when he beat you
raped you
and I don't want to write about that
I don't want that line anywhere in my poem

but I've already inked it in
and I can't erase it
because my ink is my blood
and to erase it I'd have to drain it
boil it dry
scrape the flaked residue down the garbage disposal
with the rest of yesterday's tragedies

and as for my fascination with blood,
I blame religion,
being washed in His blood;
if blood is a cleansing agent,
I don't blame myself for having so many scars

but when I delve deep into this martyr complex
you bathe your feet in My Blood
as you pull me
broken body baptized
from murky, red bathwaters

but all I really want to tell you about murky waters
is that your mind
is as beautiful and mysterious
as the swampland's black surface
while your teeth,
when you laugh,
remind me of the gator's gaping maw
and your eyes buzz restlessly like dragonflies
landing only where their whims direct them

but you're still pulling me from this bathwater,
telling me My scars are beautiful,
falling in love with My tragedy
like poets have taught you
comparing my number of scars
to the starry sky
and I feel warm to be your nighttime

because I am addicted to you
to your pain
your abuse
your greedy eyes
your boxed brain
your starved and swollen stomach
your black-pit heart,

and I want to romance you
like poets have taught me

but without the tragedy
without you trying to save me
while I'm trying to save you
but we're both too in love with tragedy
to do any damn good

and the only way we're going to end up
is apart
in love with the tragedy of what we were,
and writing tragic poetry about it
like poets have taught us

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

quothe Eurydice,

"Here's lookin' at you, kid... "