[I don't sleep anymore.]
My lips are on strike. The picket line won't curve upward. Set, set, set as my silly innards in some special milk of misery. This is the compilation of frustrations that will not stay a safe distance away. Rather they curl all around my neck and scratch at my skin like woolly scarves or impatient cats, undeclawed. I am strangling myself with chords, chords that some other man created, some other woman. These musicians whose names I do not know, whose words and ways drip scalding onto the exposed organs, for I am see-through and skinless, though not a chicken breast.
Love seems futile at times, and about to dispel into thick or thin air like a gas, innocuous. But then its invisible hand caresses my cheek, SMACKS my cheek, and it stings either way. My salt falls either way. The trombones emit a sort of solemn self-important sadness that drips like Chinese torture down the pipes, these rusty clogged walkways. I hate that I'm blowing my nose right off my face without any hope of relieving this congestion. I hate that what I need, furiously, cannot quite exist.
And this dirty arm can't reach the moon anymore. Forget the feet. Forget the everything. Let's can we just twist together like inextricable ivy? Can we find each other at a side table, and leave together smelling of breakfast? Can marble dissolve under anything less than a bullet's cold descent?
Roaring, clouds. Eyes, popping. That silly word, stopping. Me. In my unchecked tracks, my muddied sneakers, your mudluscious eyes, my e.e. cummings rip-offs, a tail disconnected from the body like that brain that circles above like some fucking halo like God himself being a Hovercraft when I need him just once to be a dark chocolate steed. I would do so many things if I knew how, but I just sit instead and let my spine shrivel up. Happiness is this funny thing, its source uncertain and probably illegal. Not illegal in any normal sense. And I am losing even the vague edges. Wondering if I could shatter that thinnest wall, ever thickening. The plate glass that protects the smarter people.
Love seems futile at times, and about to dispel into thick or thin air like a gas, innocuous. But then its invisible hand caresses my cheek, SMACKS my cheek, and it stings either way. My salt falls either way. The trombones emit a sort of solemn self-important sadness that drips like Chinese torture down the pipes, these rusty clogged walkways. I hate that I'm blowing my nose right off my face without any hope of relieving this congestion. I hate that what I need, furiously, cannot quite exist.
And this dirty arm can't reach the moon anymore. Forget the feet. Forget the everything. Let's can we just twist together like inextricable ivy? Can we find each other at a side table, and leave together smelling of breakfast? Can marble dissolve under anything less than a bullet's cold descent?
Roaring, clouds. Eyes, popping. That silly word, stopping. Me. In my unchecked tracks, my muddied sneakers, your mudluscious eyes, my e.e. cummings rip-offs, a tail disconnected from the body like that brain that circles above like some fucking halo like God himself being a Hovercraft when I need him just once to be a dark chocolate steed. I would do so many things if I knew how, but I just sit instead and let my spine shrivel up. Happiness is this funny thing, its source uncertain and probably illegal. Not illegal in any normal sense. And I am losing even the vague edges. Wondering if I could shatter that thinnest wall, ever thickening. The plate glass that protects the smarter people.