Friday, July 15, 2011

Too Much Likeness Kills

The way her life ends,
in the river Ouse*
or in a kitchen oven in Fitzroy Road in London**;
A woman,
a poet,
a talented writer,
who is her husband? her lover?

A companion just like herself,
a man who writes poetry as well,
and understands the importance of rhyming sometimes,
and not, the others;
a man with a publishing house,
who devotes all his energy to the papers.

But what is it there,
in the oven,
that burns and glimmers?
What does she see in the river?

Another lover, perhaps,
a lover that understands the simpleness of life,
who tells her at nights that she is the one,
no matter how many poems she has written,
or is going to write.
A man so unlike Leonard,
or Ted,
that can grab her and show her the way out
of the abyss
she keeps falling
and into.

Not just another being with her own self,
but a completely different man,
whose fire burns elsewhere,
whose eyes catch her worldliness;

Someone to show you around,
and teach you how to really live,
despite your poetry or whatever shitty art it is you do.

Dreamer with dreamer
drowns in the river,
or else explodes in the kitchen.


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