Ruin

So you forget your lover's epithet Thinking you never had a song To sing. Not for a wanting ear.

What's toxic gleams. Daggers of The heart. Ordinary. Twee. Also Uncouth, lest somewhat slutty. Like a mess in stark stilettos who Prances loudly across some French prick's private pavement. A churchbell rings. It must be 5.

What's toxic gleams. Is better not To talk about. Better not to talk. Don't end up. Just end. Perdu. Like Proust. You spend the day In bed. But even Proust left at Night to walk the winding Parisian pavement. Fresh arias Divinely sung teeming deep inside His pale tin ear. Wine-drunk, Heart-moved, and feeling down, Should he, one night, bump into a Stranger on the dim-lit street who Stirred him, for pity, he wouldn't Move. Words were prickly— This he knew. They made lives, Yes—but quelled them too. To See possible life shudder before His eyes did not make him sad— Far worse, it made him sorry.

So Proust couldn't turn a page. Pauvre homme! And mon dieu Don't I resemble that familiar Hound dog of a face. Dumb. This. Decoupage of loneliness. Inside- Out turned dukedom. All your Desires like pennies in a fountain Turn up your trousers like a face, Sit back and watch the coins as They go streaming. Outside the Wind winds the sun up like a Clock. A churchbell rings. It's 5.

Summer's furlough. Could be a Trauerspiel. That, as Walter Benjamin Concluded, "has no individual hero, Only constellations." Renouncing Forward-time, abandoning any notion Of redemption, you are presence. You Are disfigured and malformed. You are A fugitive. You are female. For forever. Most of all, you are, for now, his fetish.

It's true. Grief could sometimes be Spectacular. The way what's ruined Must be beautiful. Because it stays so. Because it is an un-apology. Like when You whisper words and the wind blows Them soft and in the wrong direction. Hope was like that. Made you later- Sad. Made you at-first-happy. Wound And wound you round its finger. 5 Times struck you with lead hand. Like Run-down clock. The clamors made by Callus churchbells. Antithes: your Weaver's step. Your sleight of hand.

Maybe at last you have turned out to Possess the golden ticket. Maybe you Were always a golden child. Strike all 5 times, while iron's hot. Evil step- Mother, that's you, too! Without child. House full of dead, malnourished eggs. A smart heroine would've eaten them. Say, of the witchy, German type. Not I, Wer, Ich? C'est moi. A man of woe. A man who loves too much. Who can't Stop missing mother. Who can't help Missing, or muttering, Sorry, I'm so Sorry. With feelings that gush at high- Tide, always threatening to overflow Life's levees. Break the dam. In need Of sang-froid. A drink to sup on. Gulp Down. Doctor's liquor. Essential syrup Strike 5. Coiled hand to give back your Goofball face it's moonglow. Reflexive Shudder. What it takes to make a sullen Body move. Move. Look, you tell Yourself, I see me now...clearer than Ever. You are ruined. You are Proust. You are the writer. You are removed.