I always get myself
into this mess. I find someone who tells me I am beautiful. I believe it like a nihilist believes in god. I never jump thinking that someone will catch me. I always carry wings on the way down. I’m a cold hearted cynic and love won’t be the death of me. Except. He tells me that he likes the way that I look and somehow I think he just might. He holds me like a child holds hope in his heart and in his hands, cupped at the fountain. And somehow, and I can’t understand why, He cares for me like my mother never did and my father only attempted to try.
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I sit on the window sill, pressed against glass,
six stories above South Eutaw Street. Sunlight streams through widely drawn curtains and falls on your face, exposed between bedsheets. Your eyes blink twice beneath long lashed lids, you close your arms around me even when I'm not there. Forgotten lacy things and all of your clothes and remnants of candy colored condom wrappers litter the floor like drift wood and shells. I walk through the wreckage like one treads in ocean stripped to the skin, my flaws are unsheltered. I creep a bit closer and crouch beside the bed and touch the life force that moves in your neck, and all at once I'm flooded with how last night felt to be submerged with you, for the very first time twenty thousand leagues under a starlit city sky making waves of our own in a king sized bed as the ripples drifted slowly around us. A streetside open air shack
selling slices on the upper east side grease pools in pepperoni cups. I take a bite and pass it to him. He nibbles then puts it down on the plate and watches me like watching the sun blaze in the sky. He looks down. He picks up my hands like he always does a cartographer mapping their creases and cuts he tells me "I like them," as taxis roar past. His hair reflects neon like watercolor paints. Our eyes meet again and he grins like he's found music after a decade of silence. The city fades. Our lips touch. Peace. **They gave me pizza as a random poetry topic. This is what I came up with. I didn't want him in that way then.
We drove black midnight country roads, music blaring, songs exchanged like bartering for trinkets of closeness. We drove orange flickering back country roads talking until the streetlamps slept, bartering for trinkets of close companionship. I went home to somebody else at dawn. We talked until the streetlamps slept. He sketched my hands with his eyes one night. I went home to someone else at dawn, still feeling his skin trace my oyster shell knuckles. He held and sketched my hands at night, music blaring, songs exchanged. I feel his fingers trace my oyster shell skin. I didn't want him in that way then. I am a demagogue.
I study your written and empty pages and bibliograph your desires. With a turner I flip your resting heart to observe that side which is buried in earth. Progressive, I hunt for right moments in time to slowly reveal the obvious fact that I am exactly what you've always hoped for. Until the next one comes along. And then, I become him. **This was written in a creative writing class in ten minutes after being given the following words with which to craft a poem: turner, demagogue, bibliographer, progressive. I want to sleep with you
in the most literal sense, bodies entangled flesh against flesh fingertips tracing the curve of a waist, breathing mellowed memories fade Time becomes lucid and billows like long fish fins. You smell like an ocean wave tonight
a smell that beckons me, come closer. And I know well that once I do you'll pull me under with the shells. I run my tongue over your lips like a whisper fades in moonlight. I feel your fingertips press chills into my crumbling spine. We are not meant to love forever I'm not even sure we are meant to love now, but as your mouth searches dankly my skin I cannot help but think you are mine. And sadly, outside this starlit universe of fever touch and chilly kisses, where my skin is yours and time disappears, I'm not yours. And I know it. But do you? Levigare
Your hand envelopes my rough fingertips like the mother of pearl sheen on an oyster shell. Wolf Call Your heart wolf howls and shakes down the moon, makes the earth level and calls my heart to you. Simple. I love you I don't love you You make me a lioness You make me a fowl Tonight has been an eternity Tonight marks just four months Four months of friendship Four months of terror Comfort, love Fear, hell I don't know what I feel anymore. A movie is only as good as its actors, which explains in part why every single movie that Marlon Brando took part of was exemplary. But The Man himself is a worrisome topic for me. There are moments, from some nearly forgotten era, where he would grace the screen in gorgeous grey tones, and speak in a way that made me shiver in my Snuggie... And then there are moments, that usually found him in a bloated rambling state, that make my heart swell. What happened? ...my thoughts on The Man.
Chain smoked til two last night
Up chucked at six. Chain smoked til three tonight What the hell am I doing here? Eat ramen, Read poetry, Think about you when I lay in bed Take oxy, Can't sleep at night, Try to get your body out my head. I write too many songs about the way you feel. When your skin melts into mine Can't tell which dreams are real. When will I finally get to have you all alone, so. I. Can tell you how I feel |