Brush stroke of lips on innocent skin.

First kisses are always the hardest ones to predict.

Like a bird with lost wings I need music to help me sing
Teach me to f l y
To run away
And I promise to return one day
I need you to untangle me
Free me of these rusty chains
Let the wind b l o w
And through the clouds we will g o
Flying away from are troubles
And out running time
Flying faster, and faster
Intill we can't go on
And again s o a r i n g toward dawn
Basking in the beatiful sunrise
I'm finally free
Because
My dear
you have untangled me.

How do you expect me to believe in myself
If you can't look in the mirror and believe in you
You're the best friend a girl could ask for
But yet you can't see it
How come I can?
You tell me all these things about myself that I've never noticed, never wanted to notice.
You told me something that has never slipped out of anyones lips besides yours..
"You're beautiful"
And you told me to believe it
And I did
For a moment
A slight second..
I trusted you
I let you in, and I don't do that with anyone besides her
But it really does hurt that you think of yourself that way.
You're amazing
Perfect, maybe a little to perfect.
And I wish you knew
That I can't belive in myself
Inless you can believe in you.
"You're beautiful"

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread

A girl will stand on the edge of the
Brooklyn Bridge at 7pm,
The water will stare back
at her
as the cars will glide past her,
(the rejection of her resume meant nothing
in comparison to the rejection from her lover.)

A man sits in the car in his garage
a capsule in his hand
and a gas leak in the trunk.
(no amount of promotions
which earnt him that car
could keep him afloat
as tax collectors harass his neighbors
for a tax return they are not going to
recieve.)

A woman will stand on a 2ft high
stool,
a rope in her hands
and a letter on the bed.
(the unborn child she caressed with alcohol
poisoning lingers in her mind
as she cannot bear the thought
of telling her husband that she loved whiskey
more than she did him.)

A boy will reside
in his fathers study,
his favourite book rested on the desk
and a gun in his hand.
(it never really was quite the same
after he left.)