At A Party at a House Round the Corner
I write my poems in white verse
and let them slowly fall
into this jumble of small uneven
love letters and incoherent words
masked only by my attempt
to get stoned in a silently painted
room with the walls playing
me jazz and stilted Chopin
until my ears have turned red
with the blood of a handkerchief
left in a woman’s bathroom to dry
and forgotten for three drunken weeks
until I returned with some punctuation
and let it slip slowly into the darkness
of a curled junky sleeping sunrise.
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