I’m not sure if Sylvia will be enough to describe Sylvia. I’ll probably go through all of them, all of us, from Sappho to Lana Del Rey. I need to incorporate the feminine mystique, to perfect the hologram over and over again, if I want to ever finish this.
I want so many things and all of them include you But not only You I want you, I want to write that book you strive to drive me away from I want to find the definition of life without a definition to myself That’s the only thing I could never achieve with words I want a child that doesn’t keep me from being a woman And excelling in the magnificence of what a woman can and will be I want to sit by myself in the evening today And that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to make me company tomorrow I know how to tie your tie I can do it if you ask me nicely Just don’t tie me to your definitions Do not try to fit me in the concepts of what a wife should be I’m not, I won’t I want, I don’t Is it too much to ask fitting yes And no In the same response?
Sylvia’s drawings of constructions was no more than a wanting to understand how constructions work so she could escape her husband’s blinding umbrella and look up, sight the sky in a way she never had.
Perhaps there are five bridges past the twilight zone Perhaps the sky isn’t blue at all Perhaps there was an ocean beneath the ocean Before poetry became fashionable Accessory to idle minds I’m still trying to write my name in the writing But a name is just a shell. It needs to be to survive Just the peeling and to get there there has To be a knife: five points will tell The secret and we’re dead Dead to the meaning it was us given It’s been a while since I fixed the form My generation experimented the visuals so Much that the meaning became old I’m still trying to write my soul in the writing To earn my name that I don’t even care for The witch and the damsel — the world Is the stage where she’s killed by the shell In the name of there being a man, to not break The spell, no. The kiss of a prince, the chains To the doors of a castle. Was the witch the damsel? The castle of a man, towers for the thoughts To go High, higher. But never Leave. They touch the roof And fall They sing perhaps... the singing of those who cannot leave Because they don’t know they’re locked, the illusion is high They sing in the mis en scene, they leave it to tomorrow They wonder if there’s a skyline beneath the skyline Beyond the skyline beneath, above the skyline beyond They sing, they come back They land in the tea I swallow Eyes up and nonchalant Perhaps there are five points to a secret Five bridges beneath the shell Each one points to a life I don’t know But the shell is petrified, there’s no knife
I quit titling poems, I quit titling situations. And soon, the lack of definition created something new. That brought me to thinking: what if that applies to every thing else? Undefine me, undefine my surroundings, I’ll be the next rectification of the hologram.
Love,
A