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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476803" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>O Little Sister</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">O little sister you're an alley-cat alto-sax <br>howling on the fire escape <br>under a blue moon<br>that's driven you into heat <br>just outside my window<br>for that arsonist boyfriend of yours <br>who used to puke in my potted geraniums <br>every time the two of you got drunk enough<br>to crash across my coffee-table laughing <br>even with each other for a crutch <br>you haven't got a leg to stand on. <br>I was charmed by your romantic desolation. <br>I was intrigued by how much original sincerity <br>you both saw fit to squander on a cliche. <br>C'est la vie, c'est l'amor, c'est le guerre.<br>Elvis Presley is well and living in Tweed. <br>And Arthur Rimbaud is running guns <br>with Jim Morrison in Ethiopia for Al-Shabab. <br>Most people work harder at hope <br>than they do at achieving their downfall<br>and you were a fire hydrant <br>and now you haven't got a hose. <br>No pun intended <br>I've known you too long <br>to see you this upended slurring your words <br>like the simultaneous translator <br>of an hourglass speaking <br>out of both sides of its mouth at once. <br>I don't know why he left you. <br>Maybe there was nothing left to put out. <br>You burned out. <br>A piece flew off your heat shield upon re-entry.<br>Maybe any man who couldn't hold his liquor <br>realizes sooner than later he couldn't hold you. <br>I don't know. <br>Go ask my geraniums. <br>They've got more to say about him than I do.<br>You make your death bed.<br>You got to die in it. <br>Next time build your house on stilts<br>in Stanthorpe Queensland <br>to keep the snakes away from your pillow. <br>What can I say? <br>He had a shoulder on his chip <br>that just couldn't hold his end of the world up? <br>And don't get me wrong. <br>I'm not laughing at your pain. <br>I don't laugh at pain. <br>Pain is pain. <br>Different planets. <br>Different moons. <br>Who hasn't gone swimming with dolphins<br>in the saturnine seas of Titan<br>or dropped a comet like a match <br>on a methane moon of Neptune? <br>Endomorphs and dopamines <br>can make you do a lot of funny things <br>that love is at a loss for words to justify.<br>Even if just for one wild night <br>of occult hunting magic <br>everyone longs to run with the wolves.<br>And howl, o little sister, you can hear them howling<br>in their blood agony at the waxing moon <br>as if something had died within them <br>that was so deep and crucial <br>it tore their hearts out <br>in an ecstasy of unrepentant pain. <br>And many many years later <br>when the solid abyss and hollowness of life <br>has grown even greater <br>you can still hear their voices <br>screaming like winter winds <br>above the timber-line <br>so high-pitched no echo <br>has ever been able to reach that high again<br>without shattering like a night bird <br>against the mirage of the open sky in the window.<br>Like you, little sister, now. <br>I'm not a sump-pump for anybody's tears <br>not even my own<br>but I've been known <br>to throw a little heavy water <br>on a nuclear meltdown every now and again. <br>Pain. Separation. Loss. Dream death <br>you keep reliving like an afterlife in your sleep<br>you're dying to wake up from <br>like a coma that's lost everything worth waking up to.<br>Not two. Not two. Not two. <br>That's the way it is here. <br>That's as far as words go. <br>That's where Statius takes over <br>from Vergil on the nightshift <br>and the stars nod off like children <br>who couldn't finish the story <br>and the quality of the poetry drops <br>as dark genius opts out <br>of the company of bright mediocrities <br>trying too hard to make it a better world<br>than it needs to be.<br>For things it didn't do. <br>And in a merciful world <br>that lived up to its teachings <br>and didn't shrink the heart <br>with fear of its own extremes<br>while everything else is expanding <br>shouldn't be asked to suffer like a placebo <br>in the glands of spurious cure. <br>And, yes, I know sometimes <br>it's hard to keep up with the mysteries<br>like the elements of life on a geometric scale. <br>How many jugulars does a woman have <br>for someone to cut<br>like the downed powerlines <br>of the Medusa's head<br>for having cast the first stone at herself? <br>You can wake the serpent fire <br>at the base of your spine <br>just above your coccyx <br>the hardest bone in your body <br>the little throne<br>the modest gravestone<br>you'll be resurrected on <br>when you're summoned from the dead, <br>but you can't train love <br>to bite the people you want it too<br>and run like an antidote to the rescue.<br>That's why you're getting high <br>on your own poison right now. <br>That's why your drunken tears <br>oscillate between a broken chandelier <br>that's bleeding out<br>and acid rain that burns like love<br>congealing into a new ice age. <br>However deep you dig the grave <br>to bury someone you once really loved <br>even a desert at night<br>when the stars weren't looking <br>wouldn't be enough to fill it in. <br>It's a wound without scar tissue <br>for the rest of your life.<br>The ghosts keep being pulled out of the box <br>like that kleenex you keep using <br>to dry your eyes at this seance<br>you've called on the spur of the moment<br>to be appalled by how lonely it is <br>to plead with the dead for severance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476803" data-title="O Little Sister de Patrick White" data-description="O little sister you're an alley-cat alto-sax 
howling on the fire escape 
under a blue moon
that's driven you into heat 
just outside my window
for that arsonist boyfriend of yours 
who used to puke in my potted geraniums 
every time the two of yo..."></div>
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