Nothing is so tragic as forgotten imagery.
So, anyway, I'll be keeping random bits and pieces of my poems here. Feel free to add any pretty images you have here, if you want.
~
Spoiler
From today's failure of a poem. *deposits*
you sit by a narrow window, rubbing your narrow strip of a heart with bleach,
and wonder occasionally if it belongs in a tannery.
she lives in a house built of waxwork tables and sorcery,
and stacked up candlesticks, one up
against the other.
she wears sorcery like a persian carpet tripping
in lace, like a high heel that burns scarlet
in the dazed morning sun.
she whisks bowls of cream and leaves them to set
on the treetops, pale and shivering, in the middle
of July.
you sit by a narrow window, rubbing your narrow strip of a heart with bleach,
and wonder occasionally if it belongs in a tannery.
she lives in a house built of waxwork tables and sorcery,
and stacked up candlesticks, one up
against the other.
she wears sorcery like a persian carpet tripping
in lace, like a high heel that burns scarlet
in the dazed morning sun.
she whisks bowls of cream and leaves them to set
on the treetops, pale and shivering, in the middle
of July.
(Also, I wouldn't mind any criticism on these bits and pieces, like--what do you think could make the images stronger? Are they scattered? Are they redundant/repetitive in what they have to say?)
