In our list of attributes of the pale poetry of CathyBlogs, we neglected to mention, too persistent. But we write with you in mind -- and by you, I mean me, according to my site metrics.
Anyway, we all know the importance of revision, whether it's for one reader, or one zillion. Good poem, or bad. So I keep picking at this one. Death by revision.
Death by Poetry (revised)
These aren't the words you wanted
when you asked that day,
write something for me --
your warm words and low voice
cool eyes, duple heart, and
veiled, arrogant want.
Who was the enigma, then?
Because there’s a word you
threw around, a thin, contumelious
compliment of manipulative design,
exposed by erosion, love’s labor lost --
Who were we kidding? Love. Lost.
These aren't the words you wanted,
my long-gone target, just
the hyperbolic bullets you deserve.
Let blood run through the leading,
and drip from every enjambment.
Bleed out, you gut-shot memory.
Weak weak weak. Ah, still needs work, but I'm starting to get frustrated. This one lives to get picked on another day. I still need to: