The ****

muttered under breaths
of exasperation
is the language that you speak.

your life has become a series, unanswered
questions, curses, solitude.

you walk from dead end
to dead
end
crossing dark roads in between

as cars shine yellow eyes behind you
your shadow shrinking
swallowed by your footsteps
disappears
with the red taillights
fading into the distance

you are
lonely
yet
want to be
alone

you're angry,
angrily searching
for peace.

smoke rises from your parted lips
trembling
forming the lyrics
of that last rock record

it probably sold millions
your pain and frustration
caught in it

yet still

                                  no one understands.

Sometimes --
Somtimes things just
   explode
and there's not a thing to do
So you have to sit back
and let them dazzle you
You couldn't change them,
even if you died trying

The city sounds like the muted trumpet beats of a the nineteen year old protege.
Who is sitting in the shadow of the black cube sculpture on Astor Place.

There's a sixteen year old waiting for the subway,
She is singing alone, to You Make Me Feel So Young, while her absent-minded mother snaps along.

Tonight she will relive the boys she has known, who have held her waist and kissed her mouth and
She won't feel anything because
she is unconsciously dancing to the trumpet music and jazz playing around her in Washington Square.

She's lean and lanky,
And she sinks her eyes into your flesh.
Her bones hypnotize you,
The thought of touching her off-white skin sends you into a whirl.
Her black hair sits like sin on her shoulders,
And the emptiness haunts you when she's not here.
Her cherry lips constantly taunt yours,
and when she smiles, it's like
hearing The Beatles for the first time.
Charlotte.

i watch that ember burn,
in a slow-roasting fire.
i hear each individual crackle,
exciting my inner-most desire;

to feel that blaze a'burning,
deep inside of my heart.
that's ceased, post-recently,
to strike the steel to start.

blood type: irrelevant,
for it's flint flowing through my veins.
the tinder within must surely be damp,
else you, my dear, fight flames like rain.

I want a poet
between my thighs,
wicked tongue wrapped
in verse,
drive and provoke,
serenade
this dancing knot
of prose hidden here,
a hungry mound
saturated beneath a soft
cocoon of sweltering flesh,
suspended in expectation
inspired to spill forth
steaming compositions
sticky on his epic lips,
grinning.

And he’ll rise then
breathing a new stanza
onto my fragrant neck
“Sandalwood,” he’ll whisper
as he fills me with a new
refrain
emphatically taunts
my music
to sing down onto
his tightened fuse,
running rivulets spiraling
along his determined thighs,
crying out into his
listening ear,
a requiem so potent it
drips off the page
and becomes some reality.

Normally it'd be a promise that I cannot keep or let myself hold to,
but everything I swear just seems to bring me away from you.
How awkward too, getting close then coming unglued.
I feel like I'm running and you're untying my shoe.
I feel like I'm getting so tired I can hardly move.

So I'll wait here for you.

I've spent so many nights locked out of you,
I'd rather live with my lights knocked out by you.
Might as well, rolling my eyes to the back of my head
just looking for the words that I have not yet thought or said.
Oddly, you're not even my type, being the kind made to be chased,
But typical isn't what I want to find, and clearly I don't set the rules in this race.
What a day to forever remember and a night to never forget, but I'm just trying my best.

With untied shoes, fast-paced, reckless.
But I'll wait here for you.

Tears should be stinging my eyes
Yet nothing brews there.

Am I incapable of such emotions?

Fear
Sadness
Love
Anger

All I can muster is Numbness.
Is it a safety reflex?

To prevent me from facing what I truly feel.
From years of consoling others.

I remain robotic, incapable.