(no subject)
An Ode, to Hope
Yeah, I said it.
Put the shirt back on.
I know!
Disbelief is on this side
of the room, too.
But, lets
go see someone
rock so hard,
a bass string snaps
and cuts open his hand;
he'll play still.
OR! We can see
Opus 64. Number 2.
You love that song, don't you?
Personally, I like 10/12 better, those
etudes always got me going
you know that...
Its great in this room, just
the two of us
and after two hours
we're like
towers, two towers,
so stiff and dead,
from all heat. Heart, with out the "r"
the our.
But sometimes you want out
of the room.
Like, if you take too much time
eating ...Chinese or something,
the last few bites
just aren't as good.
I want to go out,
get NEW food. By that
I mean I want you to go out with me,
let's get NEW, together.
Come back, have another dinner.
Another bottle of wine.
You say your thighs don't like that
Orange chicken.
That's OK, I'll eat it, you can have
the rice, the broccoli.
You say you have too much thigh.
You have, a lot, yes
a nose, curves, skin as flat and
aerodynamic
as some land speed record breakers.
You don't have
much of an ass. Sorry, that was too much.
But let's go! Lets go lets go lets go!
And save the "fuck you Cassidy"
for a less metaphoric day
unless it was for the ass comment
a stanza up. I deserve that.
I deserve you, right?
I mean, Wikipedia tells me there's
about 9 and one half million left
that speak Swedish
and assuming half are women,
there's only a .0008% chance
I'd have ever met you.
You'll meet lots of white boys, but do they know
how to speak spanish?
Yes. I guess they do.
How about knowing Yeats wasn't
an infection, but a poet?
Yeah, that's my line.
Let's go anywhere.
Spanish dancing,
where you don't have to speak
el idioma
to know
that Julio Iglesias
means sexy,
sexy as fuck,
or know how my mind
es sin vergüenza,
and its all because we're out
saving our blood for later.
Shit/fuck
don't tell me I made a mistake
with you.
I want you to know
that I see in you
an ode.
Old school.
Old school love and hope.
Just tell me,
si siquiera me mientes
that you are above
necromancy, that
your will is too strong to die on me,
and be somebody else's
dead body.
I just hope that my
hands are as electric
as your body,
and that when my hand is
right between your lower back
and your hip (we can't even tell)
that I'd feel it, too.
Like you.
Yeah, I said it.
Put the shirt back on.
I know!
Disbelief is on this side
of the room, too.
But, lets
go see someone
rock so hard,
a bass string snaps
and cuts open his hand;
he'll play still.
OR! We can see
Opus 64. Number 2.
You love that song, don't you?
Personally, I like 10/12 better, those
etudes always got me going
you know that...
Its great in this room, just
the two of us
and after two hours
we're like
towers, two towers,
so stiff and dead,
from all heat. Heart, with out the "r"
the our.
But sometimes you want out
of the room.
Like, if you take too much time
eating ...Chinese or something,
the last few bites
just aren't as good.
I want to go out,
get NEW food. By that
I mean I want you to go out with me,
let's get NEW, together.
Come back, have another dinner.
Another bottle of wine.
You say your thighs don't like that
Orange chicken.
That's OK, I'll eat it, you can have
the rice, the broccoli.
You say you have too much thigh.
You have, a lot, yes
a nose, curves, skin as flat and
aerodynamic
as some land speed record breakers.
You don't have
much of an ass. Sorry, that was too much.
But let's go! Lets go lets go lets go!
And save the "fuck you Cassidy"
for a less metaphoric day
unless it was for the ass comment
a stanza up. I deserve that.
I deserve you, right?
I mean, Wikipedia tells me there's
about 9 and one half million left
that speak Swedish
and assuming half are women,
there's only a .0008% chance
I'd have ever met you.
You'll meet lots of white boys, but do they know
how to speak spanish?
Yes. I guess they do.
How about knowing Yeats wasn't
an infection, but a poet?
Yeah, that's my line.
Let's go anywhere.
Spanish dancing,
where you don't have to speak
el idioma
to know
that Julio Iglesias
means sexy,
sexy as fuck,
or know how my mind
es sin vergüenza,
and its all because we're out
saving our blood for later.
Shit/fuck
don't tell me I made a mistake
with you.
I want you to know
that I see in you
an ode.
Old school.
Old school love and hope.
Just tell me,
si siquiera me mientes
that you are above
necromancy, that
your will is too strong to die on me,
and be somebody else's
dead body.
I just hope that my
hands are as electric
as your body,
and that when my hand is
right between your lower back
and your hip (we can't even tell)
that I'd feel it, too.
Like you.