tunnels.
at first it's the dry dust that's easily
affected by an exhale or toe of a boot.
the kind that washes off, flowing into
ancient pipes.
those tollhouse cookies and your bed can only be there for so long.
until your golden retriever is too old to fetch and the posters of rock stars fade.
every building has empty window eyes and a gaping mouth.
"ain't no magic in the breakdown"
(that’s your scratch on my retina.)
when these things go softly, my lashes lock and
my eyes sink down into the tunnels.
even a partially convinced participant,
i tried to make it beautiful for everyone else.
maybe painting the everyday with glitter and highlights,
i’d make it bearable for you.
Somehow make someone content.
(and if the fake glow doesn’t work, mocking it will.)
i dig deep tunnels into your head,
suck brains through the nasal cavity.
ancient Egyptians with metal rods.
runnels for miles underground, into every
century, person, and bite of cake that
ended in a bitter choke.
painting pictures with my failed, physical attempts. let's face it:
i can't run very fast. i can’t slow down when I kiss most of the time.
(please believe the lie.)
allow me to point out the elegance of tracing arteries with pen,
flowing together and absorbing the mild toxins, smaller at the top.
trees start at leaves. running sap down into their roots in the cold, fat earth.
in those catacombs i grope until i re-adjust to the light.
sometimes things are so beautiful. words, scents,
click into place.
other times while walking down the street I
exhale smoke onto only myself, to feel enveloped by anything.
mist in lungs. the air that tastes like bitter snow, rushing through.
the walls on either side.
teeth and bones of the other buried remains.
before sleep, my eyes roll back to cave paintings on the tunnels.
simple beauty. there can be worth in pretending.
there is spark in the collapse.
affected by an exhale or toe of a boot.
the kind that washes off, flowing into
ancient pipes.
those tollhouse cookies and your bed can only be there for so long.
until your golden retriever is too old to fetch and the posters of rock stars fade.
every building has empty window eyes and a gaping mouth.
"ain't no magic in the breakdown"
(that’s your scratch on my retina.)
when these things go softly, my lashes lock and
my eyes sink down into the tunnels.
even a partially convinced participant,
i tried to make it beautiful for everyone else.
maybe painting the everyday with glitter and highlights,
i’d make it bearable for you.
Somehow make someone content.
(and if the fake glow doesn’t work, mocking it will.)
i dig deep tunnels into your head,
suck brains through the nasal cavity.
ancient Egyptians with metal rods.
runnels for miles underground, into every
century, person, and bite of cake that
ended in a bitter choke.
painting pictures with my failed, physical attempts. let's face it:
i can't run very fast. i can’t slow down when I kiss most of the time.
(please believe the lie.)
allow me to point out the elegance of tracing arteries with pen,
flowing together and absorbing the mild toxins, smaller at the top.
trees start at leaves. running sap down into their roots in the cold, fat earth.
in those catacombs i grope until i re-adjust to the light.
sometimes things are so beautiful. words, scents,
click into place.
other times while walking down the street I
exhale smoke onto only myself, to feel enveloped by anything.
mist in lungs. the air that tastes like bitter snow, rushing through.
the walls on either side.
teeth and bones of the other buried remains.
before sleep, my eyes roll back to cave paintings on the tunnels.
simple beauty. there can be worth in pretending.
there is spark in the collapse.