dusty city smells
You have not yet recovered
old tarried one
from the enlightened
and the ruse
and the sloth
You have not yet given of yourself
And as the night quiets down
with its dusty city smells
and the lukewarm rain
here we sit again and again
not yet given
Look at our white legs
until now hidden from the sun
We ache
try to douse it with beer
and cigarette smoke
We laugh like little girls
contained in our girth
withstood by our organs
tissues bathed in our blood
heart pumping like some mechanical robot
Uterus perpetually cycling
over the ancient soil of the primordial cause
And we wonder
about all the men
Are they just like us
are they just under our spell?
posted by Anita @ 5:55 PM
2 Comments:
Super amazing poem, you should post it on ALfA, a great addition.
And there is something about these thoughts that confirm that we are not like you, not even close.
And that spell, oh that damn spell... yet it may not be as strong over the long-term as it is in the short, and in the end, something more than a spell is needed to contextualise the gift and sacrifice you have been given.
The World of Anita is one good blog - 9 out 10 dentists approve!
I love your poetry. It's very soothing. It's like sitting on a lonely moolit beach alone at night.
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