They are unreal, the sane people,
very much the same, everywhere,
friends, kin, lovers,
and I am mad, Lord,
mad under the stars,
colors rupture my mind,
I don’t want to disintegrate
into ash.
They are always near,
the sane people, forgetting
everything, clearing my heart
as if it were a room, piercing
it like a tin can, to let the wind
blow through, and they are happy
when they witness only emptiness,
when I search in every corner
and don’t find myself, any
more.
They persevere in stillness,
the sane people, making the world
go quiet, as in a movie, Lord,
wrapping my scream in cellulose,
letting my laughter die.
The lie, the lie, lying here,
in the bed shouldn’t frigthen me,
bruises the father leaves
once he’s gone, cheats the lover
carves in stone, preaches friends
can’t keep, and the complexity
the awful complexity
of ideas and feelings,
that they confine to poetry.
The sane people, who swoon
at the thought of Whitman
bathing his songs in sex,
then pray a sexless God,
have no skin, Lord,
they live in a dream, semi-detached,
they never felt a thing.
I know it for sure,
as they want me to say
nothing, while they tear
my childhood apart, my
womanhood, lay my heart
down as a cloud on a scale,
a cloud, Lord, not meat,
thinking it will melt away
in a beam.
And if I listen, if I bend,
it seems everything
happens to somebody
else, that I was never a child,
neither a mother, that I never
ever had a body.
They are unreal, the sane people,
and I am mad, Lord,
I feel it so clearly,
I miss my lover,
my beautiful hurtful lover,
silklike in my mouth,
I feel
it burns —
his left hand under my head
and yours embracing me.

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