.................................
atonal la nota
.................................

The look -- it shot from my eyes, piercing his, and with this fixing, I cursed him, his love, myself.

Becoming accursed was growing on me. I was different. Walking into strong wind, cursive with respect to our roman times, with respect to the normal to the ground... Whee!

But why am I lonely and so thoroughly -- italicized?: I have friends enough to spare for an Anglo baby shower and a Chinese dim sum.

Still my heart. But no, heart energizer bunnies right along; beats love-love, sob-sob, love-sob, sob-love -- game, set, and never a match!

Am so yearning to be loved -- or at least raced, and there is none of it, none of it! -- for soot, for clean sheet. Fuck: No, none of that.

It would appear that I am hopeless, and when stepped on -- downtrodden. All happiness rolls off me -- water off a duck, scented silk cast offs, if you don't want a duck but a wanton...

I sit. I watch. I sulk. Others rant, grow bitter, bicker. I? I ping my teeth lightly on the cup of flutters and moths.

.................................
Marek Lugowski
.................................

 
Copyright © Marek Lugowski
July 1997

...a poem in this room by Helen Walne...
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