a backlit ode to rooftops
in skeleton suburbs
(like nostalgic,
like naked,
like full of stars and sinking-)
His flannel soul is gripping bruises,
is running madly toward dawns' finished dreams;
endless and grotesque in matching cardigans.
a sloppy ode to lips shaping words
and absurd emotional oversights,
to any uttering reflection that grinds too close to incoherent urgency,
(or to potential delight,)
pressed dizzy into a girl who looks like me;
all soapy panic and sometimes light.
visually brutal,
belovedly torched.
An ode to night like nonsense picks at our shins
reminding us how we don’t add up.
that being here now is already fading,
intertwined,
hardly sacrificed, a small canopied disaster
quietly running out of time.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC
a backlit ode to rooftops
in skeleton suburbs
(like nostalgic,
like naked,
like full of stars and sinking-)
His flannel soul is gripping bruises,
is running madly toward dawns' finished dreams;
endless and grotesque in matching cardigans.
a sloppy ode to lips shaping words
and absurd emotional oversights,
to any uttering reflection that grinds too close to incoherent urgency,
(or to potential delight,)
pressed dizzy into a girl who looks like me;
all soapy panic and sometimes light.
visually brutal,
belovedly torched.
An ode to night like nonsense picks at our shins
reminding us how we don’t add up.
that being here now is already fading,
intertwined,
hardly sacrificed, a small canopied disaster
quietly running out of time.
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