a poem for today, 19 February 2012
[a word-sorted sonnet of 9 sentences and its image]
Digest that statement for a second.
Even my oceanic fucks are not given.
The information passed in a cultural fashion accumulates in the form of knowledge and tradition, but the stress of this definition is on the mode of transmission of the information, rather than its result.
No one is ever really quite sure what to make of you, which manifests throughout each day as a multitude of polite, awkward smiles from strangers.
Was that inappropriate.
Fine feathers make fine birds.
It's not rocket surgery.
I only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me.
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