Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Eggshells - Casey Asphel


your voice becomes
very brittle,
like instruments
in a 45 from the 60s

I could shoot Warhol again
with my words,
or maybe shock Goya’s
Saturn, they’re
marching through eggshells

you’re hurt and all I’ve got is a mouthful
of bravado, I can’t make myself
reach out and put arms
round you, instead
I’m leaning against the doorframe
reloading, new horseshit
ready to spit

and your look
tells me enough,
suddenly you’re
married to a stranger.

Casey Asphel

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