(Waiter and date have the same name)
247. January 6, 2011
Don't look at me like you don't trust me
as you slowly open the war-scarred
wardrobe. The sigh as you tie on shoes.
I know Hottdates end
comically-- and must start tragically
misconstrued. Red flighty seam-ripper
damaged your German coat, no rusty cog--
just my greying hand to blame, blue
cuticles. For all the symbol-collecting
tiara tale lovers, someone has to leave
a pointed token of their own wireless
(Verizon-marionette) self behind
by night's end. Collected works of spicy
croutons. Could I get tomato on that, too?
Cinderella will start with the calamari appetizer.
.
Oddly calm without pocket satellite.
(A smarty dropped too many times?)
Your man has your phone!
Droid-bilicus-less: my sister tweets as
Mother messages to manage
to not be shrill on Skype
I called your phone & He answered!
How could I leave it tucked in that cold, but
romantic crevice of the picture window
Was it while I snorted at the man behind me
I distractedly knocked it out of view?
So the other half of this place is a club?
So, tell me, how is the local music scene
around here? With the Not Really Asking raised brow
Crest bleached eyeballs that already look
Down upon the very idea-- locals. Music.
Miraculously loose keys, fingerless gloves
tucked in every pocket-- when did I set
my phone atop dark blood varnished
window frame? I feel like an electro-tentional
Murakami novel character in retrospect.
Treating romance with the jaded
infatuate's well-polished suspicion.
week36: 1, 2, 3
http://locksmithy.livejournal.com/tag/poem-a-day
http://poetesss.tumblr.com/PAD (a mo. !!! behind on archives, 'pologies poetesss.tumblr readers)
Don't look at me like you don't trust me
as you slowly open the war-scarred
wardrobe. The sigh as you tie on shoes.
I know Hottdates end
comically-- and must start tragically
misconstrued. Red flighty seam-ripper
damaged your German coat, no rusty cog--
just my greying hand to blame, blue
cuticles. For all the symbol-collecting
tiara tale lovers, someone has to leave
a pointed token of their own wireless
(Verizon-marionette) self behind
by night's end. Collected works of spicy
croutons. Could I get tomato on that, too?
Cinderella will start with the calamari appetizer.
.
Oddly calm without pocket satellite.
(A smarty dropped too many times?)
Your man has your phone!
Droid-bilicus-less: my sister tweets as
Mother messages to manage
to not be shrill on Skype
I called your phone & He answered!
How could I leave it tucked in that cold, but
romantic crevice of the picture window
Was it while I snorted at the man behind me
I distractedly knocked it out of view?
So the other half of this place is a club?
So, tell me, how is the local music scene
around here? With the Not Really Asking raised brow
Crest bleached eyeballs that already look
Down upon the very idea-- locals. Music.
Miraculously loose keys, fingerless gloves
tucked in every pocket-- when did I set
my phone atop dark blood varnished
window frame? I feel like an electro-tentional
Murakami novel character in retrospect.
Treating romance with the jaded
infatuate's well-polished suspicion.
week36: 1, 2, 3
http://locksmithy.livejournal.com/tag/poem-a-day
http://poetesss.tumblr.com/PAD (a mo. !!! behind on archives, 'pologies poetesss.tumblr readers)