she walked away from all the best parts of me what magicless talents my fingers forget and now how I long to drape myself in sin to sup eternal resurrect sans regret let her bless my body with those slow hands let my conscience grow quiet and my memory dim I'll regress in darkness warm with feeling night's intent I'm half committed to(o) never seeing light again |
Author's Comments
I'm pleased to present this collaboration with the delightful
 she took the lovely photo and asked me to accompany it with a poem the title is a reference to one of my favorite films (please) check out her gallery! --- interested in collaborating? writer, photographer, painter, whatever(er) - I'll mix with words with anything you've got. |
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Comments
--
“why do writers write? because it isn't there.”
—thomas berger
“no honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.”
—ts eliot
xo!
--
an antique arms and armor expert
--
“why do writers write? because it isn't there.”
—thomas berger
“no honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.”
—ts eliot
when I was living in los angeles
and got to tell him
how great I think he is
the only
emf song I remember is 'unbelievable'
xo!
--
an antique arms and armor expert
james woods is a badass. i could listen to him talk for days.
--
“why do writers write? because it isn't there.”
—thomas berger
“no honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.”
—ts eliot
Don't expect me to say anything to that.
What else can I say, I always love your poems.
--
"Come my friends, 'tis not too late to seek a newer world." -- Tennyson
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