You have a smell
That I try to put myself inside.
Wear it like I wear your t-shirts
When I've given up on fumbling for my own
in the darkness.
I like that in bed I can see your face
illuminated by a scurvy-ridden moon.
I have to bite my lips
to keep prenatal words in, sometimes.
I wonder how big a part of my life
you'll have been
once you're no longer a part of it.
Maybe I love you, or maybe
you just smell safe.
I've grown aware that my brain
is tuned incorrectly.
The antenna that detects frequencies
(art, truth, and death turn things to marble)
of screams and whispers and noise
sticks out obscenely. Pornographically.
Sometimes I give in to it
and thread myself along its wires,
intertwining with the sharp ambiance.
My heart beats faster
An unholy fusion
And I contract, deliciously,
Undulating with the compressions in the air.
They light up the silent ******* scream
coursing through my veins.
Would he have liked it here?
Or would he have sat
Unobtrusively, as I do now
and longed to feel the surf lap against his toes?
I miss myself.
She was good, and kind, and
She was not a train speeding along on a track,
Wind whistling by,
Eyes watering and half closed.
She walked alongside it,
Marveling at the cars
Now, she is reduced to
The lethargy that creeps into her veins
And ties her to the car.
Wake up, head pounding,
throat on fire; the air's too bright.
Check where you are,
check what is on you
--clothing or otherwise--
hands croak for water, trembling weakly;
bottles of liquor, open at random;
pick your way through
the jungle of clothing;
single shoes scattered.
A book, earmarked maybe, from another life.
What does it mean if
After we’re together, when
I go into the bathroom to ***
(because I don’t want to leave for a second when we’re together)
And I look in the mirror,
And there are indents--
Lines, even, on my face--
Crescent moons framing my mouth
Complementing the dark crescents under my eyes
From staying up so late to be together.
He plays for himself, and
For the Danube.
Alone, on a field of stairs
He sits with brass on his lips
In the purgatorial wilderness between
The roiling streets and the
Roiling water. He can touch neither, and
He is both. The sound does not carry.
Why is he on the edge? Why on
The seventh step? Why here? Why
Who used to sit beside him?
For whom did he used to play?
The people grovel,
Teeming among the city that sinks
Under the weight of its own
Infestation of the self.
The glass reflects the leering eyes of the masses.
The stench of the water rises,
Languid in obscenity
The shadows rot, unseen.
A graveyard of moorings past.
A woman falls.
We crowd around,
Jockeying for view.
Guitar strings vibrate in the square
The sun beats down.
It was beautiful here,