if i had a hammock...
i'm going to do things to you that Freud never knew about
touch you over and over
with frightening precision
until you tremble
into submission
from the force of it all on your hips.
i've got dynamite right here in my hands
and i'll wait til your song is on
before i start the game.
i caught the perfect time to pounce
but you were looking somewhere else.
i saw the perfect place to kiss
but clothes were separating things.
ii.
"poet and gigolo"
"i love you, it has become more
than the tight feeling in the throat
i had when there was still snow.
my heart aches for
clove smoke and the snow outside."
satisfaction is death.
satisfaction is death.
satisfaction is death.
satisfaction is death.
"psychiatrists call back
they say they are close to the cure
they say it is in the long line
where i met you, experimenting with drugs,
do you remember the dock?
the red wine?
how we talked for hours that dissolved
into kisses and urgent sex?"
sex is death.
sex is death.
sex is death.
sex is death.
"life isn't a novel, you can't omit anything,
when i read your poems they
taught me about life
and they made me love you
over and over,
and i decided upon another occupation."
(i wrote that a while back, i dont remember when, one of the ones i wrote before sleep because i just had to get it out)
iii.
the worst thing you can do
is to deny your own misery
you can't even take a piss
without feeling you're doing
something wrong.
i tried over and over to let them know
that i wasn't depressed because
i did drugs.
it is a feeling
that i cannot find.
i know the pieces fit,
if they didnt, there wouldn't be
a picture.
iv.
your finger pulls, you're waging war
the trigger feels less cold than before
your little game of dying
turned out to be a masterpiece
at least you wish it was
now that the carpet is covered in blood
now that the life is gone from her hands
now that ger eyelids cannot close
now that she cannot talk back.
you paint for yourself an aura
of broken glass that penetrates your eyes
and you've seen it there
you put it there
and still you hold that you
are a victim of someone else.
(hint: this was written in the second person, but meant perhaps for the first person.)
touch you over and over
with frightening precision
until you tremble
into submission
from the force of it all on your hips.
i've got dynamite right here in my hands
and i'll wait til your song is on
before i start the game.
i caught the perfect time to pounce
but you were looking somewhere else.
i saw the perfect place to kiss
but clothes were separating things.
ii.
"poet and gigolo"
"i love you, it has become more
than the tight feeling in the throat
i had when there was still snow.
my heart aches for
clove smoke and the snow outside."
satisfaction is death.
satisfaction is death.
satisfaction is death.
satisfaction is death.
"psychiatrists call back
they say they are close to the cure
they say it is in the long line
where i met you, experimenting with drugs,
do you remember the dock?
the red wine?
how we talked for hours that dissolved
into kisses and urgent sex?"
sex is death.
sex is death.
sex is death.
sex is death.
"life isn't a novel, you can't omit anything,
when i read your poems they
taught me about life
and they made me love you
over and over,
and i decided upon another occupation."
(i wrote that a while back, i dont remember when, one of the ones i wrote before sleep because i just had to get it out)
iii.
the worst thing you can do
is to deny your own misery
you can't even take a piss
without feeling you're doing
something wrong.
i tried over and over to let them know
that i wasn't depressed because
i did drugs.
it is a feeling
that i cannot find.
i know the pieces fit,
if they didnt, there wouldn't be
a picture.
iv.
your finger pulls, you're waging war
the trigger feels less cold than before
your little game of dying
turned out to be a masterpiece
at least you wish it was
now that the carpet is covered in blood
now that the life is gone from her hands
now that ger eyelids cannot close
now that she cannot talk back.
you paint for yourself an aura
of broken glass that penetrates your eyes
and you've seen it there
you put it there
and still you hold that you
are a victim of someone else.
(hint: this was written in the second person, but meant perhaps for the first person.)