a little bit of a resurrection
my life journal: cutmedown








poetic history


The love child of Wordsworth & his sister,
Screaming inside, dying.
What a scandal,
what a way to go.
Suicide breath, fogging up the windows,
While baby runs away to you.
I have more structure than Shakespeare
only you have to look.
What was to be expected
Of incestuous consummation,
When they put the baby in the basket
And let her float away, away, away?
She washed up on the shore
Of my heart
Several centuries later.
She scratched her way out
& ate off my face.
Only what was to be expected?


written on 2004-02-22 at 10:14 p.m.

she / lost