Traveling this weekend with letters to race and more to handdeliver when? ever and always. People around me are falling expectedly in love. Autumn creeps in under summer's windows and I find myself outside before sleep, missing tea and books and Close to Me in black sweatshirt.
For some reason this didn't publish a few days ago... maybe the web daemons don't like it. Try again.
After Many Years She Returns to the Stage
In a Play by Tennessee Williams
"It is a dream! I want it to go on."
—Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy
She runs her fingers over the cheek and down the throat
and slender chest of this boy, fuck age-appropriate
fuck that she’s a professor it’s not specific to him anyway
she arches her body against him and moans
when he orders her be my slave and God she has
climbed inside delirium
between scenes she
sits by herself in the theatre envying the students
like a pack of puppies with each other’s bodies
last time they made love her husband
whispered to her holding her close
her face in his hands throat wrist breast
reminded her of her magic words as a child
for the white meat where the blood beat close to the surface
to shame her
Why did she give it up
Why did she let it stop
It’s 1964 she’s
passing the white-flowered bushes in front of Little Bridges
that accost her with their wild sweet rotting meat smell
night and joy she is big strides
coming in tights from the improv group
where everyone sleeps with everyone sooner or later
and so why not touch caress
let the audience watch
them burn lithe arcs and turns oh foolish
bound by the body and wanting to be fire
in the dance she
throws herself down on the stage
over and over so hard she leaves bruises all over
her back in ecstasy and thrashes
for the boy who burns the paint off his dorm room walls
She walks fully clothed one April into the midnight cold Pacific
licks salt and honey off the bright god’s clavicle
there’s a boy who calls her a holy whore
no she never takes money but sometimes thinks why not
it’s what I want to do anyway
It’s what I want to do anyway
In a week it will be over
she has stirred her life to the bottom of the pot
tasted those years again when her hair flowed to her shoulders
when any road to any end might run and sometimes did
when he hands shook with the constant cigarettes
there is no happy ending to this drama
but on stage tonight a moment touching his face his hair
gold red gold and skin like snow
like sunlight on snow she steps into the fire
-- Ann Fisher-Wirth
For some reason this didn't publish a few days ago... maybe the web daemons don't like it. Try again.
After Many Years She Returns to the Stage
In a Play by Tennessee Williams
"It is a dream! I want it to go on."
—Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy
She runs her fingers over the cheek and down the throat
and slender chest of this boy, fuck age-appropriate
fuck that she’s a professor it’s not specific to him anyway
she arches her body against him and moans
when he orders her be my slave and God she has
climbed inside delirium
between scenes she
sits by herself in the theatre envying the students
like a pack of puppies with each other’s bodies
last time they made love her husband
whispered to her holding her close
her face in his hands throat wrist breast
reminded her of her magic words as a child
for the white meat where the blood beat close to the surface
to shame her
Why did she give it up
Why did she let it stop
It’s 1964 she’s
passing the white-flowered bushes in front of Little Bridges
that accost her with their wild sweet rotting meat smell
night and joy she is big strides
coming in tights from the improv group
where everyone sleeps with everyone sooner or later
and so why not touch caress
let the audience watch
them burn lithe arcs and turns oh foolish
bound by the body and wanting to be fire
in the dance she
throws herself down on the stage
over and over so hard she leaves bruises all over
her back in ecstasy and thrashes
for the boy who burns the paint off his dorm room walls
She walks fully clothed one April into the midnight cold Pacific
licks salt and honey off the bright god’s clavicle
there’s a boy who calls her a holy whore
no she never takes money but sometimes thinks why not
it’s what I want to do anyway
It’s what I want to do anyway
In a week it will be over
she has stirred her life to the bottom of the pot
tasted those years again when her hair flowed to her shoulders
when any road to any end might run and sometimes did
when he hands shook with the constant cigarettes
there is no happy ending to this drama
but on stage tonight a moment touching his face his hair
gold red gold and skin like snow
like sunlight on snow she steps into the fire
-- Ann Fisher-Wirth
