It’s not much, I mean, but
uh, nothing, sorry, man I got butterfingers
slippery as my tongue, here
did you drop something, are you sure?
cause my thump-thumping heart dropped
so hard to the floor when it knew you were near
that it bounced right back up
right where it goes, then straight out my crown chakra,
only to dissipate and erupt
into Truth
the literal and the metaphorical
allegorical nebulas that resonate in full high-definition colour the way
all Nine symphonies played simultaneously
would look
sedimentary, like a cheesecake
when I first saw you, something
shifted in my horoscope with the same scope and scale
of a modern Greek myth – Prometheus rising, fire
in the eyes of one woman, that’s all
all Aphrodite could gather up—fix it to the mainstay, Odysseus
let’s get to it, in siren seas, eating weeds to survive
if there’s nothing left when Cthulu
comes alive, I hope at least
I’ll get to talk to you at a party
like, once, where we’ll mix some more
mythologies
Once Inana birthed the world, and Spider Woman showed her how
I could show you how Saraswati
makes music, and old Bacchus stays on his feet
Care to play my Isis? If that makes me Osiris
then drown me, chop me up. Throw my body
to Mr. Lucifer; the Morrigan will come to inspect your ****
and finding it satisfactory
will whisk you away somewhere better
How’s that last part sound to you, eh?
there’s not much left to waste in the techno age
of “nothing in moderation,” with all our
degradation,
defamation,
discrimination,
and mild inflammation caused by
nonspecific anxiety medications
in our nation of constant false elation,
so
my point is time
the one thing we got left to waste
is time, and I’m a dedicated pacifist, but
I wouldn’t mind killing
some of that, with you
Let’s blow this pop stand
and go hunting.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
I was going to write you a poem stating how your sound is
long, and arching like
leaves to the sun. How it
curls and soars like a bluejay taking
wing from an autumn aspen tree
or how it can flit, like a hummingbird
back to the columbines that bloom
violet, and sensual as May
…But I felt like a ******* idiot
comparing your sound to birds of all things.
birds are too easy, anybody
can write a ******* poem comparing
a singer’s voice to birds, for godssake that’s too
easy
I want to compare your sound to a cigarette, but I’m afraid
that comparison might offend you… what I mean
is that your sound burns
at the end, like
leaves, if you light them, and I breathe it
there’s not a better way to say I
inhale when you sing, and what comes back
out, to the air is an echo, but it looks nice
and in response I wave and clutch at the sky
piteously, but your song
pats my back, with heavy hand and says
that things are fine and good
and your sound
can rasp like flipping book pages
your sound can roll down a grass hill in June your sound
can rope the ****** moon down to where I lie
with stars in my eyes, and nothing on my tongue
And like poems about birds, your sound is impossibly easy
but like birds is nigh uncatchable
and, like the moon,
its light is fleeting
and like cigarettes, your sound
is likely killing my insides.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC