I've been told that if a person is good, they don't make you want to drown yourself in acid.
not the case with you dear, never the case with you
They don't make your words and the sounds you lovingly emit from your mouth seem feeble
there you go again, fucking not listening, you just don't listen.
They don't draw red lines over your heart with felt tip pens, guidlines for the scalpel.
fuck off, just leave me alone and stop coming back to me.
I believe I have met good people, may good people, who have kissed bruises and handed bandages.
none as good as you, no one is as perfect. i never had you and you fucking ruined me
I would like to know, if I person is capable of being good, will I be capable of loving them?
I thought to those hands that draw my strings
why do ghosts only haunt the living?
Fear slithers down from the stains on my ceiling
coiling thickly around my throat
dripping feted sweat
from the tips of its' fangs
“To Spur You To Run”
so down the darkened hallways and
out to the dirty
downtown streets I flew
skittering fitfully between the alleys
for risk of being seen
before slipping into that same empty bar
me oh my, what dim corners you have
ducking onto that same crooked confessional
oh great bartend, what clouded eyes you have
where I am promptly handed
my glass of Sorrow
deliver me from evil
atop a napkin wrote with print
“All The Better To Drown You With.”
it seems I have forgotten
if this sip or the last
was bitter or sweet
but it burns my eyes
twists my ribs, thickens the wind
and in the moment I see that face
out beyond the foamy waves
that shore upon the dregs
oh hallowed face of Judgement,
it seems blackened ivy has taken root
around your eyes
"I Tip Your Service With A Nod"
every block that I stumble by
orange streetlight onto the sidewalk
which whetted feet find liquor slick
thus put nose to grindstone, idiom or no
I hear the whispered Fury
when I fall down far enough
when my ear is planted to the earth
addressing me curtly
burning up through the asphalt
and stretching uncomfortably underneath my fingers
she lifts me screaming from the molten gutter
"To Hell With Forgiveness"
I find none other than Passion
standing under a spotlight
always dreamed of becoming a star
on the next street corner
you burned out far below the heavens of the hollywood highrise
she beckons me over with knowing gestures
but you still wound up center stage
“I Am Cheap and Love is Dead
Buried With All The Other Fairy Tales”
to which I respond
“We Must Make Due.”
She came and left swiftly
departing with the last of the warmth
in this empty room
douses candles in gasoline
burning half as long but twice as bright
after which I rose and went to my window
ans listened to the chirps of Melancholy
singing of sin.
Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
If you'll be
Always give out
We'll only take
what we need.
I'll draw out
If you hang up
We can melt
Into each other
I've memorised the patterns of your face,
the creasing twitches your mouth makes.
The way your hair sticks out on end,
Your slouch to wear a backpack.
The crinkle of your nose when you concentrate,
how the backs of your arms are perfectly straight.
The difference between your real smile and the one caught on camera,
the way you hide your perfect teeth.
How a single piano note mimics your voice,
singing for as long as you can hold it.
Prettier than hansom,
You're flawless, just out of a ziplock bag.
An early morning drug in your bloodstream
erases oxidized pennies under your skin.
I know the bridge of your nose, the space between your eyes,
nesting places for discouraged fingertips.
The way your spine bends at the top for the things that count,
your delicately cantilevered shoulders
giving away your mind.
Oblivious to the world around you.
Let me take a word picture of you, before it's too late.
Sandwich you between memory foam,
preserving your shapely bone structure.
Stains and formaldehyde reached for off of shelves.
Your skinny arms that are too long,
Narrow hips that sway for any melody.
The things you cheer for that you don't care about.
If we put them end to end, tell me the surface area of your apathy.
How carefully did you chose your ringtone,
to perfectly match your flannel shirt?
Buttons done up to the one that's missing,
you pick at loose threads, regretting holes you have yet to make.
Write a monologue for your own entertainment.
Other's compositions are pretty,
but give no comfort
when you’re surviving off an IV drip.
You know the sound of the words you need to hear,
whispering them to yourself when you're alone,
wearing them like an inside out sweater.
Hiding good ideas beneath your uncombed hair.
Distract yourself at a museum.
The oil paintings depicting ancient lives
hang on nails falling out of disintegrating plaster.
Wonder of the people never painted.
You let the milk at the corner of your mouth dry,
shutting the door behind you
because you weren’t expecting come back this way again.
saloon shutters swishing under attractively feminine palms.
Slender with a pelt of checks and stripes,
a spot or two inlaid on your baby face.
Hugs and teddybears lower their voices
to speak softly about siblings.
Quiet cots lie in close clusters
on tables and the ground.
Thin military surplus stores project documentaries
of what it's like to be with you.
Pressed hard to the back of high speed comfy seats
accelerating like amusement park rides.
Uttering a cry for help,
arms reach, waving.
I called your name out through the quiet crowd.
Eyes widened, turning,
hostile basketball jerseys stared
As I said my last words.
Bad posture and skinny arms
recite treaties written by irrelevants.
Vestigial memory tricks in three ring binders
mnemonics click and chatter.
Clean your palette of what's edible,
chew on tinfoil and sharks.
Adept teeth pointing backwards
towards your stomach.
Carrying ice cream sandwiches in your backpack
along with detonation codes
for bombs that don't belong to you,
melted dairy making scraps of paper sticky.
Novel scientific concepts
pill in the lining of your back pockets,
folded carelessly underneath a wad of bus tickets.
You’re becoming a miserable businessman.
Run amok with me, I may be slow,
but my sense of direction is much better.
You’re too manly to use maps,
adorably stereotypical in your square blue car.
I’m going on an adventure, won't you join me?
covertly adjust your swim trunks
to hide spilt soy sauce,
spend today smelling salty.
Take the stairs two at a time.
elegantly lean too far backwards,
plus a nudge to send you spilling off the banister.
Grab at the air with those musician fingers.
One, two, three elitists, what a sight.
Pursing your lips to draw silent judgements,
squinting your eyes and crinkling your nose,
cock your head in the mirror.
If you ever invite me to your house,
I promise I’ll look in every room.
Read your books over your shoulder,
try to understand you more.
Back in the days of Vietnam
We said: “Make Love, not war.”
No matter how many Cong we killed
Like Doritos, they made more.
Walter Cronkite helped keep score
as the toll grew ever higher.
Foes relentless as the monsoon rains
They made Nam a quagmire.
We killed them all three times at least
Surely all of them were gone.
Then shortly after we had left
They turned up in Saigon!
Now we’re in a forever war
without a likely winner.
A pity we can claim a draw
And bring the boys home for dinner.
Let me taste your lips on my skin.
Your heart next to mine.
Can we just lay here?
But no, you had to leave.
I hate your job.
How you always leave me for it.
But something tells me you're not always
"just working late".
Maybe its how distant you've been lately.
Or maybe its how you smell like cheap perfume.
But when I come home to find another girl in our bed,
That my dear, is where I draw the line.
Kicking and screaming,
You're gonna have to drag me out.
Yeah, you better run out of this house.
You'll have a nice surprise when you get back.
Clothes scattered everywhere,
You have to admit,
I did good at getting back.
“Don’t go in there,”
He moaned, playing with his
Draw string hood,
Pulling on his bird-nest hair.
Why not? If I asked
He wouldn’t tell me.
Would the matte-dark masked
Man eat me up?
If I unlocked would I
Crack with shock or
Melt with grief into a cocktail
With those silly umbrellas
And pea pod cherries.
Unless it was his.
Maybe an orchard
Lies there, apples and lemons
And juniper berries and they
Weren’t mine but they were his
Pea pod cherries.
Or a marble deity,
Greeny Greek blue,
And I ask myself,
What in God’s name could he do?
Your voice is like sweet ether
On a dirty kitchen rag
It calms me down
It knocks me out
Knocks me up
I am pregnant with the sound
That 6 strings produce
And the beauty of your words
The fire walkers in you
Your fingers always knew
How to pick the smiles
From my insides
Pluck the kisses from my lips
Draw the nectar
50 Ways to turn me upside down
50 ways to be knock-the-wind-out-of-me
In the beginning it was dark
And you said
"Let there be colors
Let me have a guitar"
In the beginning
God colored me
Full of red blood cells
Inside the lines
But with shaky hands
There's so many more shades
And this is the last time
I swear it's the last time
I will weather these storms
My daddy said there'd be boys like you
Boys who could make it rain
You know when I'm with you
I lose my mind a little
Who is this kid?
And how is he under my skin?
He's a tattoo I don't remember getting
Maybe I was drunk
Maybe I'm in love
Whatever that is.
Dog hair on duvet covers
Every song about a different girl
Bursting at the seams till I
Can't take no more
Girls I've never met before
What you do to me doesn't make sense
My intestines turned up at the corners
Pelvic thrusting on the couch
A little bit louder now
A little bit louder now
The mortars are screaming
I'm quickly losing the war with myself
And I'm told we have nothing to fear
But fear itself
Nothing to fear but ourselves
And a boy with glasses
Writing checks that I'm afraid will bounce
Singing softly to me
On the couch
Gawd, aren't relationships terrifying?
(If I were writing this to anyone else, especially and most probably a woman,
it would go something like this:
I would like to unfold you one layer at a time;
I will peel off clothing
until I hit bottom
until there is nothing between
my hand and your drumming heart
except trembling skin.
But writing you right now is different; those soft words would feel forced, fake, hollow and pretty and attractive and wrong. I can’t tell you why but I know my heart has a song of its own
for you and if I get it wrong you know you can laugh at it.)
Do you know how overpowering you can be?
Do you know what it is to draw a breath,
one tiny insignificant breath,
and feel my entire body throb to
To run my fingertips across your skin
(not necessarily gently)
to press my hands into your skin until the impress -
like a flower pressed in a book -
I don’t want to peel your clothes away from you,
slow and confident and assured, (not right now).
There isn’t always confidence in want, is there?
I’d rather tear them away from you,
quest for your beating heart and the shape of
your hip and the long line of your spine attempt,
with my lips on yours,
to take your breath and make it ours.
My hands are hungry;
they feel empty, grasping, needful.
My lips are wet.
I love you.
(I ask what I am saying and I wonder if this is weak: I want your body against mine.)
When you're holding her Darling,
safe in your arms tonight.
Do you think of me my Starling,
while you're in the dark; am I the light?
If you're kissing her her; do you see me Dear,
am I still in your mind?
Do I haunt you as you draw her near,
does she know that you're still mine?