mcr poem-creature: ride cymbal (bob/frank, pg-13)
I'm only posting this because I'm drunk. Oh yes, so drunk. Vodka is a good thing.
I'm sick of digging this up every couple of weeks and staring at it and trying to not over-write it. It's reached the point where I'm only doing it harm. So here it is, such as it is. I never could figure out how to punctuate it to suit me, so forgive that.
ride cymbal
Bob/Frank
PG-13
For crowgirl13, the only person on the planet who might accept my Bob-centric poem-creature enough to find it weirdly charming.
ride cymbal
1
bob is
in love
and there is frank
bob is
in love
it hurts
so bob is in love
and it-- (ow
motherfucker step off
every day
frank is standing on his toes
breath against his chest
gleeful)
but bob stands still, wills
it not to hurt
because bob can
2
this things has its rhythms
this beat beat under his shirt
heart under this sticky shirt
red hot heart which should
maybe burn but only rumbles
like the rolling rolling there
in the middle of black parade
the part that really feels carry on
carry on
(and there is frank
tumbling down
under the sound
guitar on top of him
shield for battle
back bending like a strained arch
bob thinks
the top center middle piece of
the st louis one
going in last because
it was the most
the only
arches, he's thinking
what the hell?
he snorts)
he pounds with his feet
bob has his rhythms too
of steady static motion
the trip and rattle and boom
the sound around which
everything else gloms on
like sticky fingers and wild laughter
3
sometimes this thing comes in
slow seducing
possibility, but sometimes
just a numbing, soothing
lullaby of improbability
but sometimes frank is
suddenly climbing on his kit
and bob wants to kill him
when bob smacks
the crash cymbal too hard
his other hand keeps
the ride cymbal in
careful constant
vibration, hands to muffle it
quiet only at the end
it doesn't seem like a contradiction
with drums
4
sometimes, even when he's on stage
this thing makes him think night
and the roar of the road
under him spinning
as they hurtle motionless
in their bunks through relentless white noise
rustle and swish of chewing pavement
hollow pitching almost-thump of reeling tires
and frank
bunk over, bunk up
(the landscape moving by so fast like frank
under stage lights)
there's always frank
snoring
at least
with this thing
he hasn't forgotten how to play
it's only that the rhythm seems to suit
his pulse, heart caged, body braced
behind these things to smash
(these things he loves
that never smash away) he smashes
he is smashing
and they give just enough
the arch, they say, has a similar give
he doesn't believe it
but the books all say it moves
so it must
apparently it has to
5
so bob
he kisses frank
it doesn't feel like a kiss
until later
so bob
feels the kiss later
and until then kisses frank
like god only knows
(five foot four of exhaustion
and he's standing pressed
back against the wall
shaking absurdly
composed
pepsi and nicotine
jersey and ink
and eyes closed)
frank hears him coming
opens his eyes
and starts saying something about
that one time
or did you see what
or how cool was it when
and that's when Bob stops stopping
later he lies in his bunk
and he can't even remember
why he did it
or how frank tasted
or anything else except for the sudden way
he shaking reaching clutching stopping
stopped
6
biting, frank is larger
than his small frame
all mouth
biting frank is not even crossing bob's mind until
it's too early for being awake again but
he suddenly has a sharp weight on his thighs
a pair of hot hands crawling up
under his shirt
a mouth pressed wet to his
what? he says finally
gasps maybe
(frank giggles
nervous
reins it in with a hard chord face
giggles again
softer)
bob
he bites frank
teeth sinking in at the jugular
panics maybe a little
because maybe this is not how love
is supposed to
frank's body arches
and bob's too
still except for shaking arms and
breath in uneasy rhythm
tandem
hey, says frank, don't stop
god please
and, really, bob couldn't stop if he wanted to
7
so it turns out
this stupid hot tight thing sitting
on his chest (which is
love, which is frank)
feels best when he pushes back against it
makes it move
scrape of teeth
grind of hips
fits like frank has always fit before
(in the small hours of morning
move over bryar
which was always apparently please please
there in the quiet bus rolling landscape
sleeping not sleeping time
when frank is still frank
always a 4 am
constant of bus motion)
only better
~
I'm sick of digging this up every couple of weeks and staring at it and trying to not over-write it. It's reached the point where I'm only doing it harm. So here it is, such as it is. I never could figure out how to punctuate it to suit me, so forgive that.
ride cymbal
Bob/Frank
PG-13
For crowgirl13, the only person on the planet who might accept my Bob-centric poem-creature enough to find it weirdly charming.
ride cymbal
1
bob is
in love
and there is frank
bob is
in love
it hurts
so bob is in love
and it-- (ow
motherfucker step off
every day
frank is standing on his toes
breath against his chest
gleeful)
but bob stands still, wills
it not to hurt
because bob can
2
this things has its rhythms
this beat beat under his shirt
heart under this sticky shirt
red hot heart which should
maybe burn but only rumbles
like the rolling rolling there
in the middle of black parade
the part that really feels carry on
carry on
(and there is frank
tumbling down
under the sound
guitar on top of him
shield for battle
back bending like a strained arch
bob thinks
the top center middle piece of
the st louis one
going in last because
it was the most
the only
arches, he's thinking
what the hell?
he snorts)
he pounds with his feet
bob has his rhythms too
of steady static motion
the trip and rattle and boom
the sound around which
everything else gloms on
like sticky fingers and wild laughter
3
sometimes this thing comes in
slow seducing
possibility, but sometimes
just a numbing, soothing
lullaby of improbability
but sometimes frank is
suddenly climbing on his kit
and bob wants to kill him
when bob smacks
the crash cymbal too hard
his other hand keeps
the ride cymbal in
careful constant
vibration, hands to muffle it
quiet only at the end
it doesn't seem like a contradiction
with drums
4
sometimes, even when he's on stage
this thing makes him think night
and the roar of the road
under him spinning
as they hurtle motionless
in their bunks through relentless white noise
rustle and swish of chewing pavement
hollow pitching almost-thump of reeling tires
and frank
bunk over, bunk up
(the landscape moving by so fast like frank
under stage lights)
there's always frank
snoring
at least
with this thing
he hasn't forgotten how to play
it's only that the rhythm seems to suit
his pulse, heart caged, body braced
behind these things to smash
(these things he loves
that never smash away) he smashes
he is smashing
and they give just enough
the arch, they say, has a similar give
he doesn't believe it
but the books all say it moves
so it must
apparently it has to
5
so bob
he kisses frank
it doesn't feel like a kiss
until later
so bob
feels the kiss later
and until then kisses frank
like god only knows
(five foot four of exhaustion
and he's standing pressed
back against the wall
shaking absurdly
composed
pepsi and nicotine
jersey and ink
and eyes closed)
frank hears him coming
opens his eyes
and starts saying something about
that one time
or did you see what
or how cool was it when
and that's when Bob stops stopping
later he lies in his bunk
and he can't even remember
why he did it
or how frank tasted
or anything else except for the sudden way
he shaking reaching clutching stopping
stopped
6
biting, frank is larger
than his small frame
all mouth
biting frank is not even crossing bob's mind until
it's too early for being awake again but
he suddenly has a sharp weight on his thighs
a pair of hot hands crawling up
under his shirt
a mouth pressed wet to his
what? he says finally
gasps maybe
(frank giggles
nervous
reins it in with a hard chord face
giggles again
softer)
bob
he bites frank
teeth sinking in at the jugular
panics maybe a little
because maybe this is not how love
is supposed to
frank's body arches
and bob's too
still except for shaking arms and
breath in uneasy rhythm
tandem
hey, says frank, don't stop
god please
and, really, bob couldn't stop if he wanted to
7
so it turns out
this stupid hot tight thing sitting
on his chest (which is
love, which is frank)
feels best when he pushes back against it
makes it move
scrape of teeth
grind of hips
fits like frank has always fit before
(in the small hours of morning
move over bryar
which was always apparently please please
there in the quiet bus rolling landscape
sleeping not sleeping time
when frank is still frank
always a 4 am
constant of bus motion)
only better
~