Like in that poem when you mentioned that
his girlfriend hated your guts
I wonder why I like you
Also because a friend takes your name and
his eyes shine
He talks about how you write about women
Like they are, getting fucked all the time
In your poems of course
Or how I can read her pain in between your
lines
And your poems are nothing but epitaphs to
your women
I once loved a poet too
But that’s different
‘coz he was one of those who never really
wrote for me
And I longed for an epitaph.
And I am glad I dint get one...
Don’t get me wrong Charles...
(I like the thought of calling you by your
first name, holding on to it, dragging it a little bit)
Don’t get me wrong I know just how much I
mattered to him. Not much.
It’s not that he didn’t write because he
cared and you don’t...
That would be a superbly ridiculously
simple thing to say
And I can only imagine how many women mattered
much much more to you.
But you turned them all in to poems
Like all the empty spaces of your
existence...
You filled them up
Poem after poem.
I am pissed at him for not writing
And at you for writing
I am just generally pissed, I guess.
