3/1/2007

I'm always looking for you everywhere;
Dust on an empty picture frame.
Residue left from rain.
Bookmark, shoe box,
Lightbulb, warm socks.
I'm always looking for you,
In other eyes.
You're never there.
Can you sympathize?

Quite literal

When it comes to you
I only speak when spoken to.
You're the flame to my moth,
The thread, the cloth;
A book whose very pages I love.

This is not about a person.

It's really unusual for me to write anything and not date it, but this is one of the rare few. It can't be too old... probably from this fall, during one of the times I turned off the Discovery channel for a bit and stared at shelves.

Major fault

My love for you is more
athletic than a verb,
agile as a star
the tents of sun absorb.

Thank you, Sylvia Plath. It's funny to me, that one of my favorite pieces of hers is Trio Of Love Songs.

Ripping times

When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.

Later, with inch-thick specs,
Evil was just my lark:
Me and my coat and fangs
Had ripping times in the dark.
The women I clubbed with sex!
I broke them up like meringues.

Don't read much now: the dude
Who lets the girl down before
The hero arrives, the chap
Who's yellow and keeps the store
Seem far too familiar. Get stewed:
Books are a load of crap.

--Philip Larkin, "A Study Of Reading Habits"