LoveWords

by: Austin SlimKwAgGa Trimmel ©

When I think of you
My heart bumps,for you;
Make the man in me become alive
Girl for you I'll jump the moon.
The sky is blue;
And without you I'm clueless
And shawty,keep me in that place called your mind

Without you I'm in darkness.
You make my blood turn into ink;
And my brain into paper;
Cause whenever I write you appear;
Like an ink drop as a tear.
You never have to fear me leaving you,
Cause I love you,When I look at you;
The Milky Way appears in my stomach;
Cause girl you the milk in my tea;
For you the sweetness in my coffee.
Dear shawty,make my heart;
Your safe and warm house
Cause your my Minnie Mouse.
From you I never wanna depart;
For you that cute beauty-piece,
Me and you,We're a two piece.

You make my heart pound
Like Speedygonzaillas.
You make me,the luckiest dude on earth.
For you that sunny bright light;
Girl you the light of my darkness.
And you my love-medic;
You make me love-sick.
Whenever I look at you, I'm like,
Are you Jamaican....??????
Cause Ja-mai-can me crazy

You that piece of beauty;
I call an angel,
'Cos you the one I wanna die with,
You the one I want as my heart,
Cos you the one and only,beauty
Which I call art.

Nineteen forty four: A broad shoulder silhouette in the milkwhite skyscape.
Winged coy mortality whispers lovewords to his temple
touches fire to his inner thigh and he
pushes her aside and says Maybe tomorrow,
I'm working late tonight.

And he is cold and american but he tells himself
He is Cold! and American! And even in the
sandbag eyelid opal gray morning when his skylegs shake
he is cold and American and his copper girl's
thrilling reproach cannot warm him red
until he unzips his vest and invites her in.



but in forty nine he is twenty seven and American. in forty nine, to be American is to have no skylegs.
but baby death writes him letters while jean marie in her cap-sleeves looks pretty at his side.
and he likes jean marie, he tells himself he likes her better. she is pretty and she is sturdy.
she can make love without leaving burn marks.

but he wears slippers and housecoats and he has no skylegs.
and jean's cap-sleeves show no skin. fire hurt to touch but at least she let him.

and so twenty seven and scared, he reads baby death's neat tiny scrawl
and feels her breath on his earlobe
and winged
coy

he falls to forty four
and flying