Artificial Colourings.
Tangents.
I.
Earmarked.
II.
It’s dark. I can feel more than hear the music beat.
Walls tainted by submissive light.
Bodies collide, grind.
Their noise hushes against me.
This couch I’ve sunk into, the murmurs and my hair.
Can’t be there.
III.
That skirt erupts like some bastard volcano over your thighs.
“Her eyes look weird but maybe she just isn’t as high as usual.”
IV.
Quiet is hard to find nowadays.
I excuse myself and run off to other corners.
V.
I thought she did drugs whenever she disappeared.
I guess pretty girls need to take a piss.
Stare at the mirror.
Use eyeliner.
I guess pretty girls numbed by their beauty can’t see any, anywhere.
Anymore.
VI.
I don’t know if I’m recognising the right face. I open my mouth to speak.
You walk by.
I’ve been writing bad poetry and haven’t gone out in forever.
I console myself: fuck, that beard was ugly.
VII.
She takes trains and planes but only mentions those spaceship travels.
I mockingly ask about the cosmos.
It sends me its best wishes.
He throws a blanket on the roof of his van and falls asleep.
Dreams she was born to be a sailor’s wife.
VIII.
The sky is all rusty cities.
She runs to the parking lot.
Finds cigarette butts -one, two, twenty.
A fingerprint. Empty space.
Eighty-three.
Oh God. Oh God.
He isn’t meant for anyone.
He wasn’t meant for me.
IX.
Winning is: not staying around what you can’t handle.
X.
The guillotine in my stomach dropped.
Chop.
XI.
Echoes:
She doesn’t want to say yes but she’s tired of saying no.
So, she thinks: “Fuck it.”
Opens her legs, lies on her back.
He rages while stroking breasts, other soft skins.
Pushing deep into that hollow of his.
XII.
She looks at the anonymous-his confusion reflects her disgust.
She can’t let him touch.
Fights his body off.
Wipes the fogged-up windows.
Watches shadows and ghouls, the walls.
XIII.
“I feel like I’m missing something.”
“In motion or emotion?”
Sometimes, the first drag of my morning cigarette reminds me of how much I miss you.
“Maybe she was born only to make you sad.”
“It isn’t that simple.”
XIV.
I hate horoscopes. Today, I read your sign and mine would create constellations. This could’ve given me schoolgirl butterflies.
But it makes me feel angry.
Rather sick, too.
XV.
Writes postcards:
Those other grander loves that suck the life in you, scare the fuck out of you.
I lament not believing in God enough to call him in times of joy.
Signs:
The liar.
No return address.
Drives to other cities so he can post them.
XVI.
I’m not sure I care enough to be reminded you don’t care at all.
XVII.
You look tired.
“I’ve been drinking a lot of coffee.”
Like you’re running out of time.
“So I can’t really blame insomnia.”
Like a “get well” card you’d receive while lying in the hospital, dying.
She smiles.
“I’ve been drinking a lot of coffee.”
So I can’t really blame you for shaking.
XVIII.
I keep wondering what I did wrong. I didn’t fuck up.
But I didn’t do anything right either.
I didn’t do anything at all, actually.
XIX.
His hands are on the steering wheel.
Nothing’s trying to hold him back.
“What the hell, might as well.”
XX.
It’s easy to hurt someone.
Make up.
Become the hero of the day.
“It doesn’t actually hurt,” she says.
What hurts is to show it.
XXI.
“He isn’t worth your efforts.”
Blank.
“I know.”
I kept quiet for a very long time.
XXII.
It isn’t that he lies. He just never keeps his promises. He loses track of all those words he says, those whispers, that tenderness.
He manipulates trust.
Barely returns after leaving.
XXIII.
Your mind and mine, secrets wrapped in world war masks.
No time for regrets.
None left for past tides.
I’m a thousand miles high, now.
XXIV.
Grow what you weep.
Think. Feel.
Think.
XXV.
I’m lonely and uncompromising.
You’re wretched.
Weak.
XXVI.
I shall conquer you, over and over again.
Battle Stockholm syndrome, my coffin and your head.
XXVII.
Empty gas tanks.
Sotto in su techniques.
My bones are sore.
My veins are torn.
Tie those rags for keeps.
I.
Earmarked.
II.
It’s dark. I can feel more than hear the music beat.
Walls tainted by submissive light.
Bodies collide, grind.
Their noise hushes against me.
This couch I’ve sunk into, the murmurs and my hair.
Can’t be there.
III.
That skirt erupts like some bastard volcano over your thighs.
“Her eyes look weird but maybe she just isn’t as high as usual.”
IV.
Quiet is hard to find nowadays.
I excuse myself and run off to other corners.
V.
I thought she did drugs whenever she disappeared.
I guess pretty girls need to take a piss.
Stare at the mirror.
Use eyeliner.
I guess pretty girls numbed by their beauty can’t see any, anywhere.
Anymore.
VI.
I don’t know if I’m recognising the right face. I open my mouth to speak.
You walk by.
I’ve been writing bad poetry and haven’t gone out in forever.
I console myself: fuck, that beard was ugly.
VII.
She takes trains and planes but only mentions those spaceship travels.
I mockingly ask about the cosmos.
It sends me its best wishes.
He throws a blanket on the roof of his van and falls asleep.
Dreams she was born to be a sailor’s wife.
VIII.
The sky is all rusty cities.
She runs to the parking lot.
Finds cigarette butts -one, two, twenty.
A fingerprint. Empty space.
Eighty-three.
Oh God. Oh God.
He isn’t meant for anyone.
He wasn’t meant for me.
IX.
Winning is: not staying around what you can’t handle.
X.
The guillotine in my stomach dropped.
Chop.
XI.
Echoes:
She doesn’t want to say yes but she’s tired of saying no.
So, she thinks: “Fuck it.”
Opens her legs, lies on her back.
He rages while stroking breasts, other soft skins.
Pushing deep into that hollow of his.
XII.
She looks at the anonymous-his confusion reflects her disgust.
She can’t let him touch.
Fights his body off.
Wipes the fogged-up windows.
Watches shadows and ghouls, the walls.
XIII.
“I feel like I’m missing something.”
“In motion or emotion?”
Sometimes, the first drag of my morning cigarette reminds me of how much I miss you.
“Maybe she was born only to make you sad.”
“It isn’t that simple.”
XIV.
I hate horoscopes. Today, I read your sign and mine would create constellations. This could’ve given me schoolgirl butterflies.
But it makes me feel angry.
Rather sick, too.
XV.
Writes postcards:
Those other grander loves that suck the life in you, scare the fuck out of you.
I lament not believing in God enough to call him in times of joy.
Signs:
The liar.
No return address.
Drives to other cities so he can post them.
XVI.
I’m not sure I care enough to be reminded you don’t care at all.
XVII.
You look tired.
“I’ve been drinking a lot of coffee.”
Like you’re running out of time.
“So I can’t really blame insomnia.”
Like a “get well” card you’d receive while lying in the hospital, dying.
She smiles.
“I’ve been drinking a lot of coffee.”
So I can’t really blame you for shaking.
XVIII.
I keep wondering what I did wrong. I didn’t fuck up.
But I didn’t do anything right either.
I didn’t do anything at all, actually.
XIX.
His hands are on the steering wheel.
Nothing’s trying to hold him back.
“What the hell, might as well.”
XX.
It’s easy to hurt someone.
Make up.
Become the hero of the day.
“It doesn’t actually hurt,” she says.
What hurts is to show it.
XXI.
“He isn’t worth your efforts.”
Blank.
“I know.”
I kept quiet for a very long time.
XXII.
It isn’t that he lies. He just never keeps his promises. He loses track of all those words he says, those whispers, that tenderness.
He manipulates trust.
Barely returns after leaving.
XXIII.
Your mind and mine, secrets wrapped in world war masks.
No time for regrets.
None left for past tides.
I’m a thousand miles high, now.
XXIV.
Grow what you weep.
Think. Feel.
Think.
XXV.
I’m lonely and uncompromising.
You’re wretched.
Weak.
XXVI.
I shall conquer you, over and over again.
Battle Stockholm syndrome, my coffin and your head.
XXVII.
Empty gas tanks.
Sotto in su techniques.
My bones are sore.
My veins are torn.
Tie those rags for keeps.