5.4.09

What controls a face

Slow and quiet from the periphery of your years I come to sully you.
I am like an ant, a ship, a sock, an earthquake you didn't feel.
I come blank, watching, to soak in you like foam.
Discreetly I lay down plans, actions, secrets.
And I land planes, secretions—
I do those things to prep your three dimensions.
I am a doctor, a labourer, as well as the mother of fruit.
I am alone.
I am misguided.
Someone says I am misguided.
What controls attraction to weeping willows versus pines or palms?
Do those colliding clichés that do anything for love know when to fold you?
When I see, I see only you.
When I think, I see only you.
It is your face that fucks me, your face with which I play video games at night.
This is all your face's doing.
What controls chance? You should kill it.
It is your face that fucks.
Your face that fucks up everything.

5 comments:

xTx said...

dude.
out of the ballpark.
like, that shit exploded the sun.

An Unreliable Witness said...

This is another one of your poems where I really would prefer to read it hidden under the table, quaking in mortal fear.

ty bluesmith said...

smiley face emoticon.

no. the winking one.

~otto~ said...

mmmhmmmm

Roberta said...

'to soak in you like foam' and 'It is your face that fucks me, your face with which I play video games at night' were my favourite lines.

weeping willows are just prettier than pines and palms, imho.