Remembering The Yellow Light Bulb
Make heaven for me. Riches abandoned, threatened fame famished from the aisles. You worship
Nothing but the stamina in your types. Had you not considered escaping you would have waned
To a felt train glory. Transfer the lions from her den; all the vibes are not there.
Transfer the attention. Transfer units of recourse.
There is a girl in front whose attention I was taken to, taken now. I am taken
To things resembling what had been done. Memos written for someone: no longer read.
Things that walk. Things that type. Blame the stamina of this and that.
The riots have conquered. All soldiers declare triumphant scores for their modern mothers' aplomb.
She gets out of a door. You sit down and pretend. Minute by minute the timing thickens.
Remember the yellow light bulb that broke. Remember the tests, the University tours. The what was.
You with your spoon and the chopsticks you do not use. You with the silence, the plumber's anthem.
You in the touch of a softcore. You with the vain.
The pliant's reconaissance starts from the intentional dead lights. Treaties of a Falcon. Remainders
of pages unread. While you in a continuum fails a search for phantoms. Known treaties.
Hidden Sundays. All the Mondays you're after shall blight the reddened flux. And timid trials.
And marriages forced, and wanting trims, and sudden lent, and painful traits. All around you is a self
Sanctioned to get/
Labels: Cirilo Bautista, Memory, Sylvia Plath
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