Duet for Man, Woman, Birth Death, Infinity and St. Louis #11
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Woman
Any more
She doesn’t even love you enough to hate you.
Man
Yeah Well you got heart for him
He’s got his woman for all his seasons
She ain’t runnin’
by the name of you
Woman
Yeah Well I dream in private
not public
pub ic
fantasies
Man
Yeah Well
I wanna go down on her
storm ship
feel the full fierce thin winds of her
habit anger
suck any love she got left
Woman
My unfilled desire is purer than yours
I have not tasted him
Man
The taste-
was not thrilling
All Bermuda triangles
taste the same
drown me
the same
bound me
the same
as do all sculpted arrows
that do not pierce
your ever-waiting
heart and soft
It was not that one dancing moment
that thrilled me to her
Woman
You call it love
this petty obsession
with the dimensions
of her dimestore
dementia
Man
I call it life
Woman
You talk pretty for a loser
She calls you lower than a snake’s eyes
and don’t see as much
Man
He don’t know you that much
You can’t even lose, you never were-
Woman She ain’t your pain
angel no
more you gotta find a new nude fool
who you can teach your
games of possession your
rules of regression your
truths of obsession your
needs of perverse choice
Man
She’s the what
I found to desire I have a song to sing
between her thighs’
fire
Woman
Hold your fantasy, pet it, feed it, keep it in a cage,
like you wish she-
Man
Once I was a great shaggy hairy feeling to her
Once I was
someone who occurred to me
now that gnome is gone
I still live here, but-
Woman
People like us,we-
need the feel of people but we’re
not real right a
round them
we try but –
there’s nothing really there
holding us is like
holding air
Man
What if he loved you
in re turn
for your
burn
.Woman
Admit you’re empty and have been
That your voice is void
and no one enters, the illusion is old
You write of her, but are wrong for her
have not a song for her
only tired, un spired words for her
Man
And not the deed.
Woman
And none.
| Man So it’s me against the me. Woman As a snowflake tastes the sea. Man As all As end As light, that never was. Brittle are the fearlings that have no country but the night |
Bob Small-from 12/29-re-do on 12/30/83-kinda_punk
robertthesmall 