Permanent Water

By

You just texted me two cock pics
It used to be more artful
The way you did it, the composition.
Like last week. It just stopped raining.
I have a cold quicksilver feeling.
I could put this in a place where you could find it
But I am hiding it here.

One time
I wanted you to call me
So I held my blackberry to my forehead.

Why am I so stupid. Do you know why? World,
Nothing could possibly be said of you that wouldn’t
Be true. Sometimes I think about the internet
And what it means to be ugly and my fantasy
Of transparency like a see-through Jean-Jacques
Rousseau. Transparency, gift
Of love that would be an ultimate, total greatness
When I look into the smooth floes

When you tell me
You love me
And I have
To believe you.
You’re gonna
Get sick of me
You said, standing
On my bed.
All that is said
Just because
It is said
In a climate
Oppressive
In its equivalencies
Is not so little
To be only
The equal
Of itself
I say
To myself.

I went to a store to return some shoes I bought on a day I felt confused.
I exchanged them for some cheaper ones that made me feel
Like a new woman even though the store
Made me feel like dying and I should know
Better and I do know better
But still. If there were nothing
But the slightest aspiration in my flesh toward a heaven
I would love you people just the way you are.
Instead I will dress up like a woman of a certain type
For you.
I don’t want your love or to be good
To you at all and I don’t want to feel
The way you are.

I read the sonnets
Of Shakespeare today. Not all of them are great.
It made me wonder what it was like at night
For him, or Isaac Newton or whoever he was
Or they were, but the name of him. I sort
Of think either he wrote them all drunk
And one in every fifteen or twenty was great
Just effortlessly, or he was in some kind of sick
Brooding obsession with his own ugliness
Wishing he could just look beautiful and not have
To say so in the light of his man, whom he nags
In more ways than one to make babies.
The permanent decreptitude of authors
Dying on the breast of fugitive beauty is a subject
I shall not transubstantiate. Basically it’s too
Gay for me. Maybe not. I bore
A hole in myself at the thought of my lord you.
Go with me. Drag me down
To your level, just do it. Try. If we ever get there I swear
To you I’ll be faithful


Ariane Reines is the author of The Cow (Alberta Prize, FenceBooks: 2006), Coeur de Lion (Mal-O-Mar: 2007; FenceBooks: 2011), MERCURY (FenceBooks: 2011), and the play TELEPHONE, commissioned and produced by The Foundry Theatre, and presented at The Cherry Lane Theatre in February 2009, with two Obie wins. You should write poems with her in NY in spring 2012: Tuesdays at The Poetry Project and Thursdays at Poets House. More from this author →