(no subject)
you said you were ready for a tattoo.
i lied, i said a lot of things to get attention-
to get your attention-
to reel it in
like a wild fish
flippin' and flappin and floppin'
on the surface- performing every silly muscular
spasm it's exclusively insignificant body
is capabable of-
when i am half mad trying to get a hold of you
from a throng of indecisions
and warm neon persuasions-
how am i supposed to know
you got home safe if you don't call?
i'm not.
how am i supposed to sift through
this chaotic mob of you
that spins through my head like a
clever spider stringing
its thread across every concievable
story puppet and shadow
when half the time i am drunk
and half the time you are drunk
and introducing the delirious bristles
of your magnetic beard
to every soft cheek you would kill for.
how am i supposed to count those kisses?
my favorite thing to do in the morning is
slowly champ on the sweet, waxy shell
of a dark chocholate thin mint cookie-
how could you know that?
my favorite thing to do at night
is to pitilessly prattle your ear off
while I make icebergs out of
beautiful jello glasses on a wet counter
at 3 AM- time and light fractions
are very important to me. you
would know that- how flighty i am
though i would never let an abstraction escape
through the magic, sticky doorways
of the ordinary-
the night wears another cape
of hot cheeks, soft eyes and escaped personalities
set loose like anxious tigers at the
san francisco zoo. praying on the life
they've been contained and invaded by for years-
alcohol has a high pitched habit
of sizing up bones
and weakening cages.
who is going to finally shoot me
to protect everyone else?
how am i supposed to meet you
or put you down- play your hand in
this ruleless game-
when i know with him
whose pretty black curls and boyish smile
is all outdoor attraction and poker faces
singing about my fantasty taste
and nicotine negations in the backseat
while you're all truth and inside-
driving the car.
my favorite thing to do at any time of the day
is drink black tea and think-
i am hollow enough
i need these contrived moments
to feel like the life i'm leading
the conscience i am taking for a walk beneath
the kind corner daggers
and glacier branches of kendall
has got a little barely aged marrow
and wine.
you are not fitting into any of the
cathartic carpentry genres
and bookshelves
i usually assign myself in people
to make parting a little less light.
my favorite thing is how difficult you are
to swing over.
i have given the innocence of my throat
and cigarette butts the benefit of the doubt
because their plastic bulldozers
are beyond the real life windows and bricks
of your exhausted gaze.
i have spent hours staring at
the hoods of cars-
counting the morsels of sand in the parking lot
and wondering on children's beds
a few feet, some planks of wood and a lot of steel
away from this gentle bar and wobbly boat
of future garbage disposals and karoake cradles-
trying to wring you
out of my skin-
after all these years you are starting to stain
and i am pleading for
more color of you-
how do i buy you out at a dry cleaner?
when you tear away with reliability and devotion
to your family and friends
and i am no good and picking
pieces of nothing off the ground
at the opera banister of all these tires-
you are a shade and smell
my love bleach has never met the likes of.
i lied, i said a lot of things to get attention-
to get your attention-
to reel it in
like a wild fish
flippin' and flappin and floppin'
on the surface- performing every silly muscular
spasm it's exclusively insignificant body
is capabable of-
when i am half mad trying to get a hold of you
from a throng of indecisions
and warm neon persuasions-
how am i supposed to know
you got home safe if you don't call?
i'm not.
how am i supposed to sift through
this chaotic mob of you
that spins through my head like a
clever spider stringing
its thread across every concievable
story puppet and shadow
when half the time i am drunk
and half the time you are drunk
and introducing the delirious bristles
of your magnetic beard
to every soft cheek you would kill for.
how am i supposed to count those kisses?
my favorite thing to do in the morning is
slowly champ on the sweet, waxy shell
of a dark chocholate thin mint cookie-
how could you know that?
my favorite thing to do at night
is to pitilessly prattle your ear off
while I make icebergs out of
beautiful jello glasses on a wet counter
at 3 AM- time and light fractions
are very important to me. you
would know that- how flighty i am
though i would never let an abstraction escape
through the magic, sticky doorways
of the ordinary-
the night wears another cape
of hot cheeks, soft eyes and escaped personalities
set loose like anxious tigers at the
san francisco zoo. praying on the life
they've been contained and invaded by for years-
alcohol has a high pitched habit
of sizing up bones
and weakening cages.
who is going to finally shoot me
to protect everyone else?
how am i supposed to meet you
or put you down- play your hand in
this ruleless game-
when i know with him
whose pretty black curls and boyish smile
is all outdoor attraction and poker faces
singing about my fantasty taste
and nicotine negations in the backseat
while you're all truth and inside-
driving the car.
my favorite thing to do at any time of the day
is drink black tea and think-
i am hollow enough
i need these contrived moments
to feel like the life i'm leading
the conscience i am taking for a walk beneath
the kind corner daggers
and glacier branches of kendall
has got a little barely aged marrow
and wine.
you are not fitting into any of the
cathartic carpentry genres
and bookshelves
i usually assign myself in people
to make parting a little less light.
my favorite thing is how difficult you are
to swing over.
i have given the innocence of my throat
and cigarette butts the benefit of the doubt
because their plastic bulldozers
are beyond the real life windows and bricks
of your exhausted gaze.
i have spent hours staring at
the hoods of cars-
counting the morsels of sand in the parking lot
and wondering on children's beds
a few feet, some planks of wood and a lot of steel
away from this gentle bar and wobbly boat
of future garbage disposals and karoake cradles-
trying to wring you
out of my skin-
after all these years you are starting to stain
and i am pleading for
more color of you-
how do i buy you out at a dry cleaner?
when you tear away with reliability and devotion
to your family and friends
and i am no good and picking
pieces of nothing off the ground
at the opera banister of all these tires-
you are a shade and smell
my love bleach has never met the likes of.