Wednesday, December 21, 2011

An Ocean Swell From Back Then.

I'm easily wounded.
Her eyeliner's the fur of the puma.
Dark like a cave.
I looked back and saw all that youth and wandering like something missing.
No cure for old noise.
Wonderful inside this cavern.
Brave brave brave.
This midnight hour telling as it is, a loss.
Traumatic though it may be.
Still I'm not willing to give it up.
Tin type, lead type, the alluring type.
Waiting for a reply while my heart yearns tired.
Sending desperate pleas across the wires.
Lovesick, homesick, in sickness and in health.
If it was, it'd be like a panic.
A gridwork within my veins that holds me like a web.
And those daggers, smart like mischief.
Mellow, drama.
The dim glimmer in the periphery like simple, elusive possibility.
Or needles...or pins...
Some sort of wreckage out there in the distance
cannot seem to rid myself of this feeling.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

The Script Yearning.

She wears her dress like scripture. Falling to my knees, I've got nothing to offer but let me feel something. I keep writing it down but the words don't stick. I fail to save the tree and those twigs are brushing against me like stones across the flesh. They may hurt me and so do words. So do birds fly or do I? Am I falling? It's all a matter of context and the ground seems to be swimming ablur and teeming with crocodiles. And insurance salesmen, and professionals, and all of them just killing time so nicely. Their hours all sequestered in a microphone booth so you can hear them eke away slowly yet not feel their grip. Removed and out of sight but heard nonetheless. I read up on you and there is no salvation, only blood tinted teal and pandering to my naivete. And you wear a mask like a wrestler. And you wrestle with something unseen. And yes, I suppose I do learn something from reading your eyes. But nothing of your body language. And nothing of your dress keeps me thinking. Only wondering; does this thing we call the world just spin because of our wants? Because of our fears? Aspiration and admiration aside, I love the way you sway and fall and get back up again. They wrote it down for a reason.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Reading into the Daily Paper.

The racing is bleeding wrong. I'm most surely a fuck up, mewling about absence of heart and hope with a touch of humanity. The pacing's an impeding song. I'm frustrated and the sun goes down on another tirelessly adult and lonely night of sheets drawn cold. The sun stalks the tears away from my eyes, slapping my dry face with shine. I realize I'm barking up the wrong tree. I see she has her edges gilded with heartbreak. The safety nets are booby traps and the agents of the law beckon, drinking chartruese as they fall through the gaps. Vacancies. Who am I to listen to when I sense that my only tryst is one of shot up reason? I saw you once: the image of a piece of my heart falling into your palm refracted through tequila and whiskey. Each tin flask fills and empties with the sunrise running, bloodied by the sunset. Thus the truth: I see the malice of my heart writhing from blow after self-wrought, melodramatic blow. To say I built this mansion just to tear it down is an understatement. Understand rent and pay it. The dues are what come second. I feel the breeze of a personality history and it tickles painfully. Pins and needles.

My hairs are pointing at one another, deciding which of them will go gray next. The crowd is bristling aniticipation. Confetti twisting in the air; each piece aspin within a thin little orbit each their own. We are dancing this dance quietly yet the din is overwhelming.

Those that kinder warmth are all mixed up with those that want to: like blood. We draw from one another randomly. Strawberries and tar paper and the letting go of affections. We're sick to death of staring out at the pall of another inebriated set of circumstances. We are getting the sense that time is dwindling. We send messages in the dark while a quick shock dissolves under soil erosion disasters. There you are waving. Here I am debating. I'm just here and the one who's there gets no closer with the circling. I turn the hour glass. The birds swarm like flies. The grains of sand let me know of the slipping away. And there you are, my possibility: all beautiful amber avoidance. I'm here with your loss dropping off and I empty my pockets, shining white. These sheets drape about my body like a white flag of surrender.