the smokey memories of Summer
fan on high, combatting heat waves
hair glued to the forehead from sweaty laughter
on the phone for one, two, three many hours
but now the sticky fire is gone
noses are runny and temples are cold
dry knuckles chafe against a keyboard wanting to smell the same laundry detergent from a Summer back in time
drying eyes redden as rivers flow into the scorching season
a wet upper lip trembles at time lost
hours on the phone, or lying in bed alone?
I'm so disco
sweaty skin crawl
no one listens to the devil at the bar
making love to a cigar
"who let him in?"
ask voices afar
I'm so disco
it's not hard!
sell your soul
give in to what's wrong
the songs are cruel
but the people are worse
they dub you disco
make you curse
when blue lights turn us dizzy
***** coats the throat
there's an evil deep inside
that brings me to my knees
"help me! help me!"
I scream with sore lungs
crashing to the floor with a thud like a gun
"I'm so disco!"
but no one hears
they're so disco
the dance goes on
I'm so sick.
Talking about him,
talking about you,
telling my friends about us
like your name is someone else's.
If you're listening
at this party,
I hope you
hear the times
I hold back
from cracking jokes
Or at least
because I catch
Yo, I don't feel okay
is that okay with you?
I'll back off, *******, do what I have to do
to make sure this sleepy Sunday goes swell for you.
But your actions are like rug burns,
not hurting for long--but still hurting
I twisted your arm?
You're not mad about that!
Give me your skin so I can fold it!
Feeling your wrinkles under my calloused hands,
it won't hurt, I swear!
A lesson for you is what I bear.
I let this happen for one hundred years
until my pale flesh turned purple,
and my eyes blackened into squares as I saw Nyarlathotep slip out of your three tongues.
You begged for an apology I couldn't muster,
and in turn chafed your own foolish forgiveness in place of mine.
The lungs of who you are betray the bones of what you've become.
I could keep you in my hands for as long as I can hold my breath,
but that feels too long.
You're trapped around the grave of the person you wanted to find in me.
I can't be her for you.
Even for one night.
I can't be here for you.
You know it's true that your hands are tied between two more.
I'm not with you anymore.
I got the last laugh now you deal with what comes.
You miss talking,
and my ears don't miss being talked to.
You wish this was different,
and I do to.
You still don't want change,
but my bones are broken, and through them I feel my lungs.
Folded and torn, yet you still play with it.
There’s not much left in the hazy hue you haven’t crumpled to death.
Do you like the vibration of the grains under your fingertips?
I’m sure the overlapping lines must get in the way of that sensation,
but still you trace every ****** polygon as if you were the embodiment of the proverb “if it ain’t broke, why fix it?”
Throw me out.
What use am I to you?
I’m the origami rock you can’t bring yourself to toss with the moldy leftovers you never cared for--even before they were leftovers.
“Ain’t that just the way?” you say to an audience of a mirror,
hoping a prophet will descend to correct you if you turn out to be wrong.
You’re so stuck in your ways, folding your papers and crumpling each piece until it’s unrecognizable from its original state.
For a progressive you’re quite a pessimist,
but at least you still have paper to fold with its woody grain you trace with your thumbs.
I commit crimes against my body to test for happiness.
A feeling that
I'm not sure
about the way
it feels to
feel nothingness cling to my insides like pure, restless butterflies.