Yellow Sparrow

Backache,
Headache,
You're such
A mistake;
I knew to
Step back,
Make contact,
But retract
When exactly
You react.

Pining for that reassuring inebriation
All, which bombards you, is senseless
Ambiguity.

Tracing, backtracking, lacking a sense of
clarity, you fall --
into my lap
of amiability. Entangled in lovelorn
sensitivity, we lose each other to the horn-
thick drudgery of apathy. Backache, head
ache you're such a mistake; I knew to step
back, make contact, but retract when exact-
ly you react.

Angry purple make-up smeared under
the already tired-emphasis of your sli-
tted and weary eyes, I pause to conte-
mplate, animate, my sense of self-suff-
iciency. You're lacking, slacking: break
for me, my apathy; all I've come to be.

Saturday night alone in my bedroom I
seek for those friends which I've gro-
wn to get used to. They loiter in the
palpable recesses of my memory, un-
related to anything of any real subs-
tantiality. Look for them, search, play
the gullible wench with a satirical lau-
gh. Guffaw, guffaw, rapture abounds.

Lucky are we, the few, but innumerous;
Enrapt with the company of these fell-
ows, who spring from our delusion.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

<'begin explanation'>I felt a little woebegone and lonely before I went out for coffee with Matty last night. Outright pensiveness tends to make me feel poetic. I wrote all but the last stanza last night, without the last part it felt incomplete. It still is, I think. But for the time being I like it raw.<'/end explanation'>