You ain’t gonna get glory if that’s what you came here for by Dorothea Lasky
If no one wants to make a home with me
Then I will make a home with myself
And wait for someone
To plant the flowers outside my window
And make me pudding
While I write poems
And the fragile parts of me
Will be senseless.
Conceptual art is dead.
Language poetry, you know how I feel.
Kenneth Koch, you are dead, too.
All the others are not the ones to follow.
Follow me, I know everything.
Follow me
Art is not sense broken up into line
You with your lover there, you are not the birdhouse
The children coming from your womb
Are not longing made into flesh
You are not flesh, too
And flesh is not modern
It is old Mary on her throne
Sweetly coughing up angels
From a deep and sudden throat and the blueness of her dress is real
And her flaming heart with stakes in it feels a real and sudden pain
From a place we cannot imagine
And is felt everywhere, the blood running through it,
Sugary sweet there, and soft. Art by Penelope Dullaghan
Recommended listening: Sons - Concorde
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