09-04-2014, 09:38 PM
Billy--it's not prose, it's an It. sonnet set in a comic book script.
What am I supposed to love now?
Give me my ghost. Give me my massacre.
Slave my mute-eyed kin to my dreams, so burden
my sleep--let 'em brush my cheek!--drown
in their rotting stink the earthly smell of them . . .
crushed straw, cherries, her sour dirt, her sweetness . . .
Parade my pained and tortured kin before me weeping.
So they're dead. That's done. That's done now. But tell me, how
do I melt ice? In sublime suspense,
within the shadows of the stars, the milkless
bays, where my frozen love, my love, got stuck
on this side of forever--where she needs me.
Tonic moon, regale me! Howl for the strutting
helpless, soldiering off. Keep me stupid. Let me keep believing.
I love you, Haddie.
I'll get you free.
What am I supposed to love now?
Give me my ghost. Give me my massacre.
Slave my mute-eyed kin to my dreams, so burden
my sleep--let 'em brush my cheek!--drown
in their rotting stink the earthly smell of them . . .
crushed straw, cherries, her sour dirt, her sweetness . . .
Parade my pained and tortured kin before me weeping.
So they're dead. That's done. That's done now. But tell me, how
do I melt ice? In sublime suspense,
within the shadows of the stars, the milkless
bays, where my frozen love, my love, got stuck
on this side of forever--where she needs me.
Tonic moon, regale me! Howl for the strutting
helpless, soldiering off. Keep me stupid. Let me keep believing.
I love you, Haddie.
I'll get you free.
A yak is normal.