August 9, 2014

You intrigue me with your definitions, euphemisms, lifestyles.
I look in from the outside in earnest,
attempting to think of myself in the same context.
The way you speak to others in your glass box,
how you articulate your thoughts in the confines,
it makes absolute sense and yet none at all.
You fascinate me in so many varying ways,
my overwhelming hyperconsciousness holds on,
contemplating meaning behind what is at best mundane.
For I am one with your box, I play a role in your box
but I have never truly belonged to your box.
The painting that I search for cannot be found here,
it does not reside in an artificially fortified construct,
it lies beyond the wild greenery that awaits my discovery.


July 2, 2014

Balmy nights and flirty eyes,
music on the beach in the evenings,
inhaling all the shitty air our lungs cling to,
his beating heart thousands of miles away,
the vines in the garden moist with expectation,
the promise of poetry before bedtime in the morning,
standing in line for a Savages set,
giving life back to music,
chasing this temperamental existence,
all the romanticism of modern living,
decadent eats on our table out in the street,
speeding home with the windows down,
our voices lost from earlier in the day,
the moon disappearing behind the skyscrapers,
silence befalls our spinning heads,
our love is sealed into the future,
we’re the children of summer.


June 7, 2014

I’ve shed my old form in place of a new one,
the unseen residue falling away in unnerving patches of dead cells.
My bather has wonderfully strong arms,
she rubs away at years of turmoil,
back and forth she goes like an ox,
her motions dedicated and effective.
My naked body is a palette for life.
One day it will decay into the earth,
it will lose its poetic silkiness,
it will no longer bring others forth.
Yet now it’s warm to the touch,
soft like a gust of dandelions,
full and beautiful to behold.
I want to make love in this new skin,
I want to be kissed everywhere,
I want to revel in my softness,
in this revelatory appreciation of my mortality.
I want to be told the moon is mine for a night,
to be read Neruda till dawn,
to live in this hallucination.
Come with me I whisper sweetly.
You’ll never fly back down.


June 3, 2014

Take it back, stop giving it to me, I don’t want it.
This insistent but subtle beckoning;
your happy eyes, the understated artisan beer.
The cars zooming by, people hollering inside of them.
A midnight stroll to her favorite bar,
the stylish one that plays The Queen is Dead at last call.
Let’s sit under the vine canopy I tell my friend,
sip the fair-trade latte on an early summer afternoon,
its coldness sweating through the two-ply napkin
and onto the rusty garden table.
My spirit is part of this spectral landscape
but my soul looks in from a distance out west.

I can’t accept what you offer me,
this easy manner and thoughtless comfort,
the idle coolness of a momentary bout
of narcissistic congratulation and whimsy.
The temptation to jump into the pool,
to dive into this deliberately purposeless water
leaves me numb with indecision.
Kiss him she tells me over and over again.
I would kiss him a hundred times over
but not here on this street at this time.
Take it back, I tell her. I don’t want it.
Stay away from me, I tell him. I can’t have you.

Take me out tonight
where there’s music and there’s people
who are young and alive.
Driving in your car
I never, never want to go home
because I haven’t got one anymore.

Take me out tonight
because I want to see people
and I want to see life.
Driving in your car,
oh please don’t drop me home
because it’s not my home, it’s their home
and I’m welcome no more.

And if a double-decker bus
crashes in to us,
to die by your side
is such a heavenly way to die.
And if a ten-ton truck
kills the both of us,
to die by your side
well the pleasure, the privilege is mine.

The Smiths


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