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Keenan Dixon May 2014
You remind me of breakfast.
I can wake up in the morning
and you be there
you, flayed
warm and inviting, and
the next, it isnt
The moments pass and
It isnt the time for it anymore.
But, there is always
tea.
Keenan Dixon Apr 2014
And in a pickle i find myself hard pressed to not attempt to impress this one. She seeks it like a lost pack of cigarettes.
It is in her eyes, and it is in her hair. its in her shoulders and its in the way she points her ****. She wouldn't say it
in any other way than with the heavy gin soaked breath, faintly and subtly in-between huffs and sighs. She wanted the colour
of her words to match the red of her cheeks. She told me that she had heels cause of me, and i denied that i had anything
to do with it. The way she spoke reminded me of Daisy Fay.
Keenan Dixon Mar 2014
I met her one night in March
In a bar
cut between two rain slicked streets
and the drab shopping districts
that forcibly reminded you that you were downtown
and your city isn't New York.
She would tell you the same thing.
Somewhere in between sips.
Every sip forced a smile onto her face.
A smile like a well timed Tea.
She said she was happy.
Keenan Dixon Feb 2014
Like the loose lips of bar attendees
with their members pressed into the hard oak finish
and their fingers softly careening into the curves
of our individual Gods and Goddesses
We have felt it
and all of its waves warped against its cold tender
For money
What does it mean
And I remember that it doesn't matter
it never did from the start
It is the difference between being here
and not being
You never float like you do on a river
in at a bar at the edge of town
Keenan Dixon Feb 2014
Ive had too many coffees
more than i can count
devastating my systems
and
rattling around my brain
like a small child with
its bits in hand
Morning will come
like a waffle iron
And no one will know
when its all cooked
I want fruit on mine
with whipped cream
and powdered sugar
But that isnt life
and we are all out of fruit
im afraid.
But we do have coffee.
Keenan Dixon Feb 2014
My heart grows fonder
Ive been up to writing poetry again
but that may be due to backed up *****
my daily routine
I will make a great cup of coffee
nothing makes me better
in less than an  hour
nothing makes me worse
but i will be up till four
I am an empty page,
no matter how i cut it
and i am a full book
Somehow my heart grows fodder
and i stay unable to sleep
Keenan Dixon Feb 2014
Poetry doesn't work like it should
crazy bastardization of something
called love and emotions
It doesn't take much to be unrequited
it never does.
and somehow i wind up backwards.
like the little notes on my mirror
we don't truly understand the whole thing
and so, some of us skip it
like breakfast
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