the keyboard's a graveyard
each letter a tombstone
I push them to flush out
the demons within
I might skip one in ten
but I never get past
three worn pages
of Plath
before I'm down on my knees
shoving my head in the computer
Cobain,
you're in utero
through the tubes
in my radio
disconnected
disaffected
confession recital
dress-
up rehearsal
for a play that may
end poetically
Cobain and Plath
sitting in a bath
washing their cuts down the drain
with the radio crackling
in the skin simmering soup
we're all on the same page again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem