Sister
Posted: Mon Aug 26, 2013 5:31 am
Oh sister, don't be afraid of me, I won't be nailing you down in the nursery, just like the rest of them did with those wandering fingers filled with guilt that were supposed to be glorious and fine.
Oh sister, don't you believe in me? I only wanted to be hard on our family. Here with you now in this silly infirmary, our mother makes frantic and drunk calls from Germany, all of the time.
Oh sister, sweet, brown, and heavenly. Milk from your blisters on our grandmother's jewelry. There in the parlor, all naked in front of me, watching the lights flicker on and off, making archery animal designs.
Rosa Goldaine just moves her mouth over anything, that's fleshy, free, and flowering, like oranges out in the open. But don't you waste your sins again, you don't need me or won't fuck your friends, because you, you're American, your self-importance is boiling over. To prove that you must still exist, you move yourself about your first, you won't ever, never give a shit about all the worlds you're wasting away. Some pretty, bright and bubbly wondrous dream you'd like to kill and cling to and claim as your own. But don't you worry. All those dainty and dirty emotions just go away, and fade out on their own.
Sister, now that you're leaving, our fingers will falter, our lungs will be leaking all over each other and without speaking, we'll know that it's over and smile, and go grieving for whatever comes next.
Oh sister, you're getting married to some angry twister that you'll have to carry home drunk every evening from the cemetery, and if he makes it back half alive, you can bury him under your sheets.
Oh sister, now that you're grieving, I cannot imagine there is any meaning. I forgot that you could ever once have the feeling that made you keep on and continue to breathe all of this world.
And in an age of empty pleas, I don't want to feel a thing. I don't even want to know.
Rosa Goldaine, don't you ever die on me.
Don't you get on your way to go.
And some time and somewhere, I can see white roses growing from your eyes.
Oh sister, don't you believe in me? I only wanted to be hard on our family. Here with you now in this silly infirmary, our mother makes frantic and drunk calls from Germany, all of the time.
Oh sister, sweet, brown, and heavenly. Milk from your blisters on our grandmother's jewelry. There in the parlor, all naked in front of me, watching the lights flicker on and off, making archery animal designs.
Rosa Goldaine just moves her mouth over anything, that's fleshy, free, and flowering, like oranges out in the open. But don't you waste your sins again, you don't need me or won't fuck your friends, because you, you're American, your self-importance is boiling over. To prove that you must still exist, you move yourself about your first, you won't ever, never give a shit about all the worlds you're wasting away. Some pretty, bright and bubbly wondrous dream you'd like to kill and cling to and claim as your own. But don't you worry. All those dainty and dirty emotions just go away, and fade out on their own.
Sister, now that you're leaving, our fingers will falter, our lungs will be leaking all over each other and without speaking, we'll know that it's over and smile, and go grieving for whatever comes next.
Oh sister, you're getting married to some angry twister that you'll have to carry home drunk every evening from the cemetery, and if he makes it back half alive, you can bury him under your sheets.
Oh sister, now that you're grieving, I cannot imagine there is any meaning. I forgot that you could ever once have the feeling that made you keep on and continue to breathe all of this world.
And in an age of empty pleas, I don't want to feel a thing. I don't even want to know.
Rosa Goldaine, don't you ever die on me.
Don't you get on your way to go.
And some time and somewhere, I can see white roses growing from your eyes.