april seems so far away. all i want to do is sleep. i may lose some or all of my friends. as usual. and maybe i don't care. i do better alone. i feel ineffective at work. comedies make me cry. i don't care if i eat right because i hate myself so much. i don't even care about garage sales. i once read shakespeare and now i can only read teen books. i'm not even smart any more.
my dreams, my works,
must wait till after hell
I hold my honey and I store my bread
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid
I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.
I am very hungry. I am incomplete.
And none can tell when I may dine again.
No man can give me any word but Wait,
The puny light. I keep eyes pointed in;
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume
On such legs as are left me, in such heart
As I can manage, remember to go home,
My taste will not have turned insensitive
To honey and bread old purity could love.
(Act I, sc. 2, lines 129-137)
O! that this too too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on 't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Posess it merely.
The Heart Rounds Up the Usual Suspects
I sleep with the cat
when no one will have me.
When I can't give it away
for love or money--
I telephone the ones
who used to love me.
Or try to lure the leery
into my pretty web.
I'm loony as a June bride.
Cold as a bruja's tit.
A pathetic bitch.
In short, an ordinary woman.
Grateful to excessiveness.
At the slightest tug of generousness,
I stick to the cyclops who takes me,
lets me pee on the carpet
and keeps me fed.
Have you seen this woman?
I am considered harmless.
Armed and dangerous.
But only to me.
Cosmetics Do No Good
Cosmetics do no good:
no shadow, rouge, mascara, lipstick--
However artfully I comb my hair,
embellishing my throat & wrist with jewels,
it is no use--there is no
semblance of the beautiful young girl
& long for still.
My loveliness is past.
& no one could be more aware than I am
that coquettishness at this age
only renders me ridiculous.
I know it. Nevertheless,
I primp myself before the glass
like an infatuated schoolgirl
fussing over every detail,
practicing whatever subtlety
may please him.
I cannot help myself.
The God of Passion has his will of me
& I am tossed about
between humiliation and desire,
rectitude & lust,
disintegration & renewal,
ruin & salvation.
Everything is far
and long gone by.
I think that the star
glittering above me
has been dead for a million years.
I think there were tears
in the car I heard pass
and something terrible was said.
A clock has stopped striking in the house
across the road...
When did it start?...
I would like to step out of my heart
and go walking beneath the enormous sky.
I would like to pray.
And surely of all the stars that perished
one still exists.
I think that I know
which one it is--
which one, at the end of its beam in the sky,
stands like a white city...
--Rainer Maria Rilke (translated by Stephen Mitchell)