May 19th, 2010



He jumped her on a dark street; grabbed her throat.
She stared him down and sat him down to talk
About his ex-wife and lost job. Her coat
Was thin - the night was cold. She made him walk

hours in the rain. Persuaded him to go
turn himself in. Then drank herself to sleep.
In movies, she'd make stuff up you would know
was better than the script. You'd laugh and weep.

When I was sick, she told me 'You can't die'
turned up and shouted at me; she had just
Bought tickets for Bruce Springsteen, and so I
had to get well. She sometimes made you trust

that she knew stuff you didn't, that she had
the lightning sudden wisdom of the mad.


She was a nightmare Once set naked flame
to her boy-friend's mustache and said to Dick
'You're being boring'. Drunkenly would blame
Lovers for all her problems, then be sick.

Would say the most outrageous snobbish things -
'Provincial little nobody' - although
she was a socialist. Would grind her rings
against your wrist bones; and of course would blow

Smoke in your eyes. She was in love with pain
yet sneered at S&M - 'suburban sin
for lazy people'. She'd stand in the rain
if sad, or scream aloud. You couldn't win

Or tell from one day to the next just which
you'd get, the sad wit, or the evil bitch.

(no subject)

Various people have talked to me about putting together a collection of my poems, and in particular the Abigail sonnets. (I plan to write a few more of those, over the next few weeks.)

I have been thinking about doing a chapbook of the Abigail sonnets as a sort of memory-piece for her. May I consult the wisdom of LJ about how best to go about this? Or are there any small presses out there who would like to do it...