connecting the dots
the wig
the pen
those shameless bare legs,
that pressed black lipstick
i don't care for her hair
so why
does she?
it's a power struggle
jocasta and the world
so, like oedipus
i remove my eyes
to force
a change
in my perspective
it does not really help
i can still hear her voice
unclear
confused
i flee my own sense
-
the sun shines brightly cutting through the haze into tight corners of the post-atomic daze the concrete alley floor, with its broken flow...
-
for fourteen years i wished my father dead at the age of eighteen i buried him it would take another six years to be rid of his physica...
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