Blank Sketches

Nick Sinopoli '10


deficit entire knives

My hands are bleeding but it’s not stigmataIt’s not an act of Godbecause God doesn’t actShakespeare got it wrongAll the world’s a cageMy hands the hands of a puppet master’s slave

reticent entire lives


i’ve no words for strangersmomma always told me to keep quietand to ignore the candy temptationsdangling from their pretty windows.

so one timethis man asked me for directionsto a place called “utopia”and i made momma proud.

i took my baseball bat and hid in the garage.


i work the room to stay alive.

here to see youwith ornaments of my ownbut i’m so horrible with words(it’s why i can’t stop writing)so don’t despair over things left unsaid

because we’ll both rememberthe night i sacrificed my bodyto get a little closerto feel a little warmerto keep a little innocence intact

(the preternatural glow of our faceslighting up the abandoned groundslike paraplegics newly in love)

breathesighdiereviveyour routine nine to five

i could throw all of this awayand realize my mistakewhen i’ve six kids drippingwith mucuswith vomitwith semenand no moneyto seduce you anymore.

maybe then i’ll resort to alcoholuppers of some sortand card games and horsesto keep your complaintsand my libidofrom clashing


oligarchy in the lampshadeand the usual inaccuracies in the mirror

i promise you i’m not what i am.

run the a priori logicrun the obligatory peace

or the silent passenger seats


now the panichypostasis headeveryone wants to believe

now pandorahephaestus saideveryone wants to decease

mistakes in the fireplace.