Wandering back to Brooklyn to beat against blackened sheets,
the air-conditioning has yet to kick in and thick treacle slides down my back amorously, mimicking your touch.
Your sweet, candied teeth flash when you laugh, mouth spewing suggestions of kisses as we fold into each other on powder blue seats, with no signs of stopping until Seneca Avenue.
We could not keep catching hands over cold brew in sleepy cafés until sunset fell over Starr – I return to familiar aromas in Irish corners,
in a daze of scone and sodabread.
But every so often, I wake from a dream, with an arm gone dead; just like when you would lay there in my nook and watch me glassless as I dissected America.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
You seem to be setting off some smoke alarms in me.
Every time that I am required to concentrate
On something that is larger than me
(Larger than life)
I hear this perpetual beeping and thick vibrations, so muscular
Come from the tower
And it blinds me.
I’m learning every antithesis of what you are teaching me:
Every syllable that I try to annunciate is an exclusive paradox.
I’ve never been able to put liquid gold on to cold paper before now.
You are the hand of Midas.
And here I am: tearing flesh is a thing of the past,
My ancient history textbook is worn
And worthless and I cannot sell it to replace
What you have lost and for that
I am sorry.
I only want you to **** the marrow out of my dreams
For as long as it takes you to.
Voices from the tower echo throughout my body
And I start to feel sick.
Violently sick, almost.
A war rages.
And the walls become tepid and
I can taste my sweat from the night
Before on the back of my tongue
And you are there too; not consciously,
but your pressure is there.
And something begins squeezing my skull
And I can hear swords clashing.
Oh heavy, precious metal.
I do not want to be frightened by this.
In fact, I want it to last forever.
Well past its expiry date until the nausea fades out.
And we will not be strangers then but
My eyes will be blackened and maybe
You will not remember the waxes we shared.
But I will.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
The room was a skeleton
And all too familiar.
The scent of sadness.
The spine of the wall.
The lettering that made your illness
Out to be worse than it was.
I wanted to grab her hand
And tell her that it all would
Get better in time.
Like it did for me.
But what a lie that was;
What a lie that was.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC