Holden Caulfield


How motion with no triumph makes me weak.
I wonder how to bridge the gulf between
The future and the now. A petty dread,
But unlike any other I can know.


La petit mort they call it, aptly so.
Corrupt apotheosis, then some self-
Disgust. How can this be what makes the earth
Go round? The spin of it gets lodged between
My brain. The dizziness cannot subside.


Oh, lasting satisfaction must be it.
To have emotion photographed, to love,
To live and love together under God.


But what a selfish thing it is, that life.
To love is want of love, to pray is want
Of God and more than that to boot. Hard thought,
That others be a succedaneum
To treat that rotten bug which we ignore.


How nothing is alright. How nothing lives
Outside the mind which would be sought.
A girl would be so nice. To have someone
To pity me, agree with all my wri-
Ting and more too. Soft flesh that yearns abase-
Ment. Have my fingers trail across the downy skin,
Subliming on the touch… too often I
Forget my own disgusting qualities.


To have that
Bliss of which must predicate reality,
Whatever it may be…


Oh, the possibility…




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