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My last post of 2012, last outpost, ahead images: fuzzy and distant as the wind.
It’s much too dark for going
It’s much too early for a new start
The year is much too much new for this new year shit:
Why wasn’t the old year good enough to fuck up without needing a new one too?
Why weren’t you good enough to make last year’s point?
Another year goin’ to do to you what you did to it. Last post, fuzzy and distant as a bitch, much too much shit.
Sun dreams! You are naughty, wakeful spiteful dreams!
Leaving no trace but a whisper, a whisper
Uttered by those who know but stranger to the one whose fate is sowed
In sun dreamed dreams
No, Mr. Poe, it was not the beating of a heart. It was the human trappings of wood chippings. The creator, O Pinnoccio, where has he gone!
it’s not spite hold your tongue let the moment pass let the opportunity die a million times he’s not had to think while you accommodated but that’s not true a million times you haven’t had to think he would allow you to go. A million times you’ve saved yourself from being left. It’s not spite the way you think of spite it’s not spite it’s not self-spite to do what he would do see you directly, squarely in the face and slowly, deliberately turn either by force or apathy away in spite
I do not stalk you
Only watch and wonder who you look for
When your sideways glances forget to look my way
“It means nothing.” He’s being accommodating. He feels bad about the diss. “I’ll say,” I say.
“Never mind,” I say. It’s not as if he can do anything.
Oh to be Sylivia Plath, head in the oven or not.
I probably should have plugged my book at the end of all my “Lost Dog” messages I sent out.
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
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