Writing a Block

I see the block.
I visualize it.

The block is now split into an L-shape,
Supported by a cable running between the two branches.

Money dots its crowded thoughts.

The block is I:  its efforts occlude my authoring
Of it one on one:

Two objects crash with irresistible force,
Time and again.

The world is cash.  It serenades me with
A bloodlessness which extracts my life
By means of its song.

***

Lo, the actress sought patience!


Where is star?  She has thought of me
This time as a Orphan.

I called her Actress; I denied her answer.

It is for me a land of messes that
Take home a cancer.

I thought of myself as acting

I thought of her as beauty.

I knew it was she who needed ashes.


I collapse in the river of flowing lies.
My pain has its source in the pain I caused Her.


I answered her with Yes, a lie.


***


This answer is in six pieces.

One is read a threesome with a kiss.
Two is Let babies hope for art.
Three is Need is darkness in its meshing with passion
Four is Art does act pushy cancerous and entire.
Five goes to the softness of my ache:  
Six is Kicks Betwixt the Wicks.

I thought of Sylvia as a life that was my clown.
I thought of Sylvia as a reader of my patience.

I thought of Sylvia as a goddess of sham entirety.

I darkened her change with loops of poison.

Rude and apart from paper, these actions and opinions
Were Spurious, with no Understanding.

Next world: my paper crown.