Cassius hunched slightly,
unwound his thought,
months bundled up,
where it had hibernated,
burbling, dark-brightly brooding.
Cummings was right,
imagining for his mom
“a garden of blackred roses.”
Judy Garland, broken,
jittery with amphetamine dreams
was righteous too,
or at least our man so supposes.
The delicate bones
of her inner ear a mere
a heart to hear, to hurt and heal.
Whose songstress lips
did part to bare her spirit in a kiss.
‘S not just San Franciscan fags
who lament the demise of a starlet
in the end-
certain tuneless songs, dirges,
sharp with laced regret
and lamentation depend as well
upon the empathetic descent
into such precise, bathetic
forms of lovelorn hell.
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