Letter to my passion Dear passion, you gobble me up like a packet of wotsits, you are a red monster with a head of a horse and arms of an octopus. When you spit me out I jumble my lines. I blow dental appointments. I walk around naked firing wacky aphorisms: Passion is the memory of the primeval atom making love to itself. An hour of passion amounts to the sum of life times boredom. A passionless poem is as contaminating as a hundred oil rigs. Dear passion, you have my mind in an electric juicer. When you are near I am all bum notes and animal screams. I become the fever of the wounded bull. I feel a deep craving for the London night to stick “banderillas” all over my back. Primer banderilla: The blades of passion tear the cape of your body Segunda banderilla: Your eyes are quintains for an army of clouds. Tercer banderilla: England is a sharp spear no liver can endure. Dear passion, Your agitation irritates my friends, I am flapping my arms like a mad guillemot, armies of purple ants dart from my legs. You shatter the enigma. You embarrass me. You fuse the poem. You are my only hope.
Posted on: Mon, 08 Jul 2013 11:29:24 +0000
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