Sunday, August 18

Son House Tries to Something Magnificent Paint

Son House tries to something magnificent paint:
The stereo gave its wheeze its faintly breeze
to our Saturday morning, to
our hangover like dried-up flowers
she put a pen to words inexisting the night before
now blossomed alive; trrrremoring
across the sheets she with tea leaves gave me.

Son House tries to something romantic paint:
Give a love stereo for the kitchen with the open door
& don’t forget the bluebottles that scurry in
for the rotting fruit on the cupboard-top

still Son House plays the tinny sound
we respect we intimate on cigarette
breaks outside her house in daylight
enough to grow watercress

(keep your legs beneath
the table
& labour my tired eyes

as if a Chinese lantern
caught in the neighbour’s

Son House tries to something golden paint
but it’s too late or lord knows allow me a reprieve
The peaceful smell of stench unshowered youthfulness
—‘don’t you mind?
have you finished your writing?’
Her bruised shin went a maddening blur
of blue for bruise we paused
and I’s alone

Son House tries—
(oh! )
the room lay we empty me
the stereo up mine apart
got you to get itself alone and
spinning plates in the middle of
all alone and the stereo plays one
more song as Son House gives up and—

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