Monday, August 23, 2010

beautiful girls

Disasters of the heart.
I keep forgetting about them as I get older,
I who fill my time with work
and books and empty sex,
having chased out all the demons
from my bygone life of need.
I had needed to be saved
and then hadn’t,
adulthood’s nifty trick,
though sometimes I lie in bed
and stare at the ceiling
wondering if life now lacks
some essential desperation
to bring it purpose.
What happens when a woman
stands between you and oblivion?
Is it love? Before,
I’d lived off infatuation,
satisfied somehow with desire
and desire and desire and
always looking to others for salvation,
love all tied up in death,
drifting out on choppy waters
a madman copacetic—

But then I got older.
And sometimes lovers are merely lovers,
and the cars simply pass,
and work is something you do for money.
Grounded and needless and satisfied,
it’s a quiet life,
so quiet that I lie in bed and think:
Does no one else tire
of the way they always feel?
I could use a little more calamity,
blood of my fathers and blood of my sons;
I no longer need to be saved
but long for a little disaster,
hungering for suffering still,
I the ex-fanatic,
I who beg you to break me,
break me up.