(no subject)
sitting on an amp and cradling a guitar
Sitting on an amp and cradling a guitar
Red and constructed of potential sounds,
Notes clear and clarifying and resonating with
The logic lying dormant in your eyes.
Shift stained with days as if sunshine had
Poured itself so deeply into your skin
It traumatized all fabric nearby,
shoes bearded by mud
jean cuffs sketched on with grass,
Fingertips callused and
painted with soil and
acupunctured by splinters.
Electricity commutes through the circuits
And despite all the filth browsing through the shelves,
You tug at a string and render all appearances obsolete.
For a moment I’m convinced the soundwave
Was birthed directly from the mind behind your blank eyes,
From inside the frayed outlines of your eyelids.
The soundwave floats, sharp and defined
Following a trajectory
independent of the fan blown breezes.
Despite the heights of your visions,
Smoke falls to rest on books and clothes.
Despite the brightness of your hallucinations,
The lamps filaments break
And we shake the lightbulbs to make sure.
Despite the length of your notes
Each chord disintegrates, cremated by the noise of faraway traffic
And we entomb the remains in our memory,
Fondly but forgotten.
Faces nap in hooded sweatshirts,
in dreams of their own or dreams of others.
The soundwave crashes and I feel refreshed,
I watch your eyes stare into the fog
In a hypnosis broken only
By the horizontal poverty of sleep.
Sleep is when you cry and replicate the rain
To wash off all the soil and soak up all the smoke.
Sitting on an amp and cradling a guitar
Red and constructed of potential sounds,
Notes clear and clarifying and resonating with
The logic lying dormant in your eyes.
Shift stained with days as if sunshine had
Poured itself so deeply into your skin
It traumatized all fabric nearby,
shoes bearded by mud
jean cuffs sketched on with grass,
Fingertips callused and
painted with soil and
acupunctured by splinters.
Electricity commutes through the circuits
And despite all the filth browsing through the shelves,
You tug at a string and render all appearances obsolete.
For a moment I’m convinced the soundwave
Was birthed directly from the mind behind your blank eyes,
From inside the frayed outlines of your eyelids.
The soundwave floats, sharp and defined
Following a trajectory
independent of the fan blown breezes.
Despite the heights of your visions,
Smoke falls to rest on books and clothes.
Despite the brightness of your hallucinations,
The lamps filaments break
And we shake the lightbulbs to make sure.
Despite the length of your notes
Each chord disintegrates, cremated by the noise of faraway traffic
And we entomb the remains in our memory,
Fondly but forgotten.
Faces nap in hooded sweatshirts,
in dreams of their own or dreams of others.
The soundwave crashes and I feel refreshed,
I watch your eyes stare into the fog
In a hypnosis broken only
By the horizontal poverty of sleep.
Sleep is when you cry and replicate the rain
To wash off all the soil and soak up all the smoke.