writing on the bruised body and seeing into the bruise's locked backyard, not psychoanalyzing the incursion but appreciating its scissory up and down _________ remembering the wish to be Anaïs Nin— _________ stepping on the old soiled carpet of the wish to be Anaïs— _________ liking the pullulation of scratch marks and their glistering anonymity _________ florid British perfume wrongly purchased for stepfather—the perfume stank so why did I buy it? _________ the entire sky with a palette knife is scratched turquoise opal— no underlying tint to betray it _________ a sick tint inundating the marsh _________ I celebrate mother's sunset or I am cloud making her sunset more inspiringly Turneresque— _________ to scratch through the page until it dies, and no credit given to the scratcher Copyright © 2017 Wayne Koestenbaum. Used with permission of the author. |
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