**** a poem, this is Lovelution,
Not just a God complex.
We look more like the Jesus, by
Whom you've been saved, 
Than the real messiah. 

The color hierarchy rushed
Away as you left. Swung, behind
Your ringing ears, and my silent phone.
Pain, sniffed up in public, and 
Off of ceramic plates. They couldn't tell
My mouth from magenta.

In richer movies, your room is
Never on the second story. 
Refuge, out of which you sneak, to
Ride towards the runaways. 
Round stone alarms, earnestly aimed. 
"Alert me if 
'Being easy to talk to,' ever
Becomes more than a reason to
Break my heart."

Suddenly everything 
Rushes back as royal and right, as it's
Ever-all been. 
Coffee and jerky
And whiskey and cigarettes, 
Train-tracks, chewed like licorice, and
Volcanoes of molten-virtue. 

What erupted, instead, were
Early-morning talks of
Celestial bodies, and police lights. 
Free-style rap, and the
Frantically Poetic. 

What you should do is 
Get in your car,
Drive to my house,
(Park in the street) and
Blow-up the ****** gas tank.
Call your ex-boyfriend, too, and
Ask if he's awake...

"This time I'll be Capote, and 
You'll be Harper Lee, and, though it's
Sixty-three years later, we still see
Strange Fruit hung on trees."
Sing it again, your majesty. 

Left to resent my capacity for self-poison, my
Penchant for the hip evades me. So I'm
Packed, headed south,
For New Orleans, or the
First solemn smile, on which worthy 
Summers are staked. She sings:

"We wanted more
From behind our sighs,
Maybe ***** hands, 
Maybe tired thighs...
But believed that there
Was relief in closing eyes..."

So suddenly everything rushes back,
As red and as blue as it's
Ever-all been. 
And I dreamt it went different,
And I dreamt I ****** up,
And I dreamt I bought a dog, 
And I dreamt about your stomach.

It's so gratifying to realize that
I don't care what you're up to
Post-deluge-of-Dilaudid. Or
Adder-all-outta-luck
Where the beige meets the blue, and
The cat's smelling flowers, and
We're squished in this chair, here,
But you don't give a ****.

This was supposed to be the
Maiden voyage of
The S.S. Dog-Staying-Home-Alone
But, instead, familiar
Anxious chills, and shaky
Hands, and aching bones...

Hell, Baltimore is burning, whilst
Nepal just falls apart.
Sun beams, young, and up-and-coming,
Never getting called to start.

Does the wind smell
So sickly, did it die?
With the rest of me?
Is this that "long-count to thirty?"
Am I being too wordy?

"Stop rhyming, we need to drink."