horses and the sky

I love talking to strangers.

And running with scissors.

If you jump right off of the bridge, so will I.

I love me in the mirror.

Angling at my self-worship.

Speciously, faithfully, generously applied.

It would be a privilege

To die in my twenties.

God, what an awful long time I’ve been alive.

I am a Knight

Riding out in my armor.

Justice awakens its full ice cube eyes.

Salaciously drinking

From Cup after cup.

Sick in the morning.

The doctor prescribes

More poetry, then I may

Lie in my bed;

Head ringed with asphodel, rainflowers, and smiles.

The latter are coming from a smirking cypress.

Swords caught in its branches;

One, two, three, try.

Seventeen magic wands.

Who could need so many?

I grasp them with seventeen hands

While I cry.

5 Comments

  1. this is beautiful with its symbolism, like an unraveling mystery that i cant understand 🙂
    i recognise the tarot tho i always forget their meanings, i think 7swords and seven wands were in the last reading i had tho can’t remember which way up they were, nor the question i asked. 🙂

  2. I agree. The ancient Greeks believed the gods loved those who died young. I think life really ends at eighteen anyway. I’m in my twenties and have somehow survived too many accidents and perilous activities. I fell in love with a tarot-reader in Istanbul who told me I was going to die young and I’m still waiting. Besides, living past forty is just bad manners.

    1. So you recognized the Tarot. Of course you did. I think living past forty is bad manners for artists. Some people are so delicately lovely all the way into their nineties that taking away even a moment would be a hideous crime. Those are the young ones. We old souls just do a disservice to the earth by crowding it up with ourselves for too long.

Love you, too

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