My love;
Do I dare drop another shrouded truth upon your eardrum...?
I left another footprint today, you know
...but those granules of concrete are still hollow,
still quiet;
I've hidden behind your golden dreadlocks too often,
and heard your contemptuous laughter echo,
the crooked whistle of another gunshot
piercing the silence, and a silhouette
-of course
....yet I can't let go.
You're so young, I tell myself;
Your bedsheets are still crisp, still odorless;
...this sleep does not trouble you, does it?
-with her kissing nightmares.
And I dread my toes slipping-into that cadencing abyss,
...the scattered doom of my growing death wish;
there's no one to hold me,
but you.
The pillowcases still hiss...
their fingers clench my hair, often;
and threads tie me to a new paranoia
every night.
And I know
these windows aren't clean
...they disgust me;
yet they're my only source of light,
and I choose to compromise;
It's left me with nothing,
but your rusted blood on my tongue
and these shadows formed on the wall,
by your electric blue flesh...
I'm tired, dearest
...your fumbling silence hurts me-
maybe another drop of ******
will bring you back to life.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 4:54 PM UTC
It stuck to her lips- ethanol;
Seeping through those crevices-
wax-painted , yet supple, soft;
Like the rest of her.
Those droplets still dangled,
Wavering- clenching;
the bitter doses
and their vibgyor spirals- spun;
these voices needed to be hushed-
so we decided to use a cigarette,
to burn our souls
…and hide behind the smoke;
Now it was just us,
those anaerobic strings of air,-spinning,
the shadows slipping, across the walls-
those rays of light softly reflecting
…from her thighs;
Her fingers trembled,
Skin on skin- and fermentation-
She stung; like vinegar,
that promise of toxic sweetness still lingered;
So we drove on, like empty vessels-
Trying.
Yet it didn’t exist.
Oct 13, 2009
Oct 13, 2009 at 11:48 PM UTC
I sipped upon your creative juices,
and drowned, another finger,
into that gory darkness
of thought;
these canopies breathe softly,
as I curl my fingers
and straighten my eyelids
to take another nap;
Yet that dying fetus haunts me-
it’s misted face still echoes
as an unwanted ultrasound,
of bubbling cysts;
I tried ******
yet the spirals scream:
in this pregnant mind-
and refuse;
So deal with me-
You’re mine.
Yet,
You’re born
...and never alive;
Oct 13, 2009
Oct 13, 2009 at 11:31 PM UTC