A little of the research i did. (it may be hard to understand but that's probably because it was done by me 
) because I'm not to well versed with her work or her personality. i have to say i do feel a little closer to her (if that's at all possible since starting the poem.)
still have about 14 more verse to do and thats why it's a work in progress.
feel free to rip or rant and i'll try and use what i can from feedback, to do on the spot edits.
[Image: http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh246...search.jpg]
Beautiful Bones:
They rest with help, the fumes of carbon plumes
put my anguished self to sleep, read on the third,
dead on the fourth. The irony of death,
smoke inhalation to the extreme.
Sing me a cigarette in stilettos.
Sing me a vodka with olive.
Sing me a bed with Linda, divine Linda,
child of my fucking loins.
Loin of my unhappy thrush, song-less
among the dying magnolia.
Abandonment:
I know that much;
I know of a girl in a room
Locked away like a dangerous thought.
I know that much;
no don’t touch me, I’m alone without hands,
unable to reach out, whom can I touch --
Myself?
I know that much;
left in my naked reality
under a blanket of dark light
and isolation, a thorazine queen
barefoot and belt-less.
Will you feel me, my breasts,
my spine, a calf, the crease of me?
Feel them.
Bring me back.
Light me a cigarette.
Is anyone there, hello?
) because I'm not to well versed with her work or her personality. i have to say i do feel a little closer to her (if that's at all possible since starting the poem.)still have about 14 more verse to do and thats why it's a work in progress.
feel free to rip or rant and i'll try and use what i can from feedback, to do on the spot edits.
[Image: http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh246...search.jpg]
Beautiful Bones:
They rest with help, the fumes of carbon plumes
put my anguished self to sleep, read on the third,
dead on the fourth. The irony of death,
smoke inhalation to the extreme.
Sing me a cigarette in stilettos.
Sing me a vodka with olive.
Sing me a bed with Linda, divine Linda,
child of my fucking loins.
Loin of my unhappy thrush, song-less
among the dying magnolia.
Abandonment:
I know that much;
I know of a girl in a room
Locked away like a dangerous thought.
I know that much;
no don’t touch me, I’m alone without hands,
unable to reach out, whom can I touch --
Myself?
I know that much;
left in my naked reality
under a blanket of dark light
and isolation, a thorazine queen
barefoot and belt-less.
Will you feel me, my breasts,
my spine, a calf, the crease of me?
Feel them.
Bring me back.
Light me a cigarette.
Is anyone there, hello?