| Fifty of Fifty Sometimes you just have to do something bad. You have to steal food from your unborn; you have to vote for oblivion; you have to sleep, for death is resistant and glossy, the flowering weed in your hothouse body, the opiate perfume slicked through your decisions. You have grown older. You smell death in you, a tropic, a jungle. Death hides no more death, but strips back a pleasure-choked fragrance, a gulped, nectared flame, and your balsa-light mind feebly fights to remember how youth disconnected frailty from passion, how once your eternal heart was more true than your body and than this scent— the scent! Burnt sweet— breathe, relinquish, align your life with the rules of your flesh, let yourself cup and drink the juice simmering tart in your muscle and fat. Let go what you care for, what you want to learn. Sometimes you have to stop fighting for beauty and safety, sometimes you just have to anonymously fall to your place, let your thumbprints evaporate from your hands. And though as you fall, one heart-squelching pulse bells and fades and you think clearly that what you have done is something bad you keep falling. Back to Poems List |
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