Monday, November 27, 2006
My muse is a house older
than liniment and icebergs.
Covered in cobwebs, someone distant hands me some drink.
And I read some book.
And wait for the boy in the paisley shirt to come rushing back,
"I never should have left."
"You never did actually leave", I say.
Stop torturing me, muse!
(I retrace a little, after all, the muse has been mostly kind;
It is Eros who remains distinctly anonymous).
My own house is my prison,
A flagship of apathy.
Dammit. I can't think straight anymore.
I remember when I first heard about the place.
My Mother described how the old woman kept
two grand pianos in her living room.
It isn't frivolity to want,
two of the best things.
Darla Nunnery 1999
(The painting is "Mariana", by John Everett Millais
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