"ballrooms" poems
09.01.13
I know the likelihood of me getting asked to prom measures up to the likelihood of anyone actually using the white crayon in the Crayola box. I am going to be the girl that’s not even on any guy’s Plan B.
And that would be totally cool except I’m sad.
I am shaking my head at God and how he totally owes me one.
Prom is supposed to be like, the fairytale moment! I’ve been dreaming of princes and ballrooms and dancing and romance and magic and love… probably since I was conceived. How could you even let the dreamer girl who wanted to be a princess nurture five hundred layers of beautiful only to coat her with thick paint in the shade called “ugly”? (Trivia: That drives boys away.)
So maybe I still made believe I was a princess. But often enough, the mirror reflects the facade, when I’m expecting it to hold my heart. It gets to a point that you just have to let go.
I have theories. I used to despair and say that I was in the wrong storybook. What a life for such a girl. But it happens that romantics don’t have anyone to hold. (Thus the teddy bears, I suppose. Do you know how hard I hug those? I am pathetic.) My second theory, is maybe I’ve been looking from the wrong perspective. Maybe my life isn’t going to be a fairytale in the way I expect. How about a modernized version or something?
It’s becoming obvious that I don’t really have any ideas.
Except for one last.
Maybe there’s a plot twist?
Maybe there’s a plot twist.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 8:01 AM UTC
Out of all the gin joints
Classrooms
Bedrooms
Ballrooms
Hospitals
Temples
Minds
Spirits
Hearts
You had to walk into mine
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
Dance with me, dearest death.
Sweep me off my feet.
Dance with me, darling death.
Pull us cheek to cheek.
You take the lead, and I will follow
Matching my feet with yours.
Through the halls, into ballrooms
On a night time tour of dance floors.
Dance with me, dearest death.
Hold me by the waist.
Dance with me, darling death.
Your chest warm on my face.
See my dress flow like river water,
As you take my finger for a twirl.
In shadows of the rooms we dance
In dips and curves and curls.
Dance with me, dearest death.
Press me against your skin.
Dance with me, darling death.
Meet the flesh above my chin.
And when the night is finally over
I beg, take me home with you.
Into bed you and I will crawl
For a night I will not make through.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
This meadow once a graceful place
Pathways to untold peace
Narrow corridors into the heartland of tranquility
Weaving in, out, around trees
Like perfectly formed webs
That glisten with morning dew
Even as the sun sets through the branches
Cascading this meadow with darkness
New Moon blanketing the meadow
With the hope of new light
The voices begin to play
Lullaby whispers dancing on leaves
Shaking tree limbs to the eerie silence
The nonexistent breeze
Carrying the meadow into ballrooms of vampiric flames
Thirsty for the life each tree branch holds
Silent meadow voices
Truly are silent
When meadows burn to the sound
Of crackling horror-stricken leaves
Curling under the immense heat
Fossilized in ashes
Making this once tranquil meadow
An ashen wasteland for silent meadow voices
Refusing to even open their tongues
To welcome the morning sun
Bringing new light
To the horror of silent meadow voices...silenced
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
Crows of brooklyn
payphone goddess
Shakespeare:
old skinny
repeating thin silver words
beneath a sea shell
stolen by a 7 year old girl
in a red rag dress
from the burning contemporary
bookstore
tossing sweat thru
irrelevant back spine tunnel streets
featherless skulls
spitting sour chinese gin
from chimney blow hole
of their decaying dead thieving Fox
revolting death
to mother blessing decay
red blue green white
Fox yellow brown fur
swirling entwined like
melting crayons
on a stone militia crafted bench
researched developed by young Hispanic America Freedom wanderers
too hot
too cold to undress and ****
swirling together like cigar french ashes with
tongue hued wine
feverish coffee
thick as the bulging pregnant belly mother
giving
taking birth to a child
tossed carelessly into the Great Lakes
sipping on bad spoiled milk
digesting salt
hard boiled swan eggs
eating purity
chewing skunk
coughing industrial chemical gasoline
*********** AIDS NYC bright non-existent lights
non-existent Allah
howling North Korea Communist war hymns
sing great religious protest
gunky toe nail'd feet
waltzing in the stomach of medieval
ballrooms chandelier not casted by
infinite diamonds
but by Jewish slaves
Islamic skins
Christian leather
Catholic molested brains children bones
deceased Langston Hughes
hung by Hughes spine and pupil
the size of texas
mass of the ****** female lips and knees
wearing color blind dress
shoes unfound
skin feet walking on rain drizzling beach
washed up skeleton sting ray
the skin unwrapped
like a christmas gift
Santa is starvation
licking the shoe polished long toes
of Death
riding the Downtown artificial lights
artificial scientist crafted classical
elevator time consuming Death songs
Jesus,
waking up,
to his body dry,
like that of Winter's rose and lips.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
The dogs are long gone.
The children of catastrophe
flick their knives at the sun,
shuffling from ruin to ruin
in their parents’ heavy boots,
stepping over the skeletons
of buildings and hummingbirds.
The children of catastrophe whet
their blades on barren slates.
They shave their heads
and argue about the history
of chandeliers and satellites.
The frogs at the water’s edge
expand into dumb balloons.
Hunted by an army of toothless men,
the children scramble toward the sound
of one dog barking at the edge of the world.
They sleep in shifts,
cursing moonlight.
We scavenge the stillness
between bullet and bone.
In our dreams,
the horizon binds us
with a blinding flash—
your hand in mine,
our cells married
and incandescent:
each to each,
ash to ash.
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
Every needle in the wind-whipped pines whispers out a soft "I do"
and the daisies dancing in their grassy ballrooms
"I do, I do, I do"
and the cardinals crowned with Christmas snow
chirping their identical
"I do."
Resonating through the trees and channeled through the earth
in places where the sun shines red
and stars shimmer through the waking hours
"I do."
Perhaps one day
our hearts and lips conform to the rhythm
as we whisper with transparent eyes
"I do,
I do."
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
if two butterflies lock together in the air
sharing their color in a wild embrace
their wings, their hearts, seem to fly fast
faster than before
and they will be faster forever more i am sure
2 wings and 2 wings now four wings
four lips
two to a body
who are entangled together making one entity
living in a moment where when one half of you breathes
the other becomes breathless
the air stolen but if asked for
it would have been given upon request
even insisted upon that one takes it
and the other wouldn't resist
i insist, because my whole life is written nowhere
and is only spoken word of mouth
let me share my story with you and just for a second
my one story
your one history
will bloom into understanding through the courting gesture of
word of mouth
its a language all its own, written only upon shower mirrors
when we feel the most alone
with the imprint of nervous energy, before we begin realizing that
we cannot do our language justice through writing
or even story telling
we must be story experiencing
story weaving, and story dancing with our tongues in ballrooms
switching leads, and songs and dances
lit only by the warmth of the fireplace
lit by the gentle swaying of our embrace
and the taste!
it tastes like conversation
patient and understanding conversation
amid the dancing and the lights of a masquerade
where participation is not mandatory
because you always find your own motivation
and all of this started with a look
the one look, the one comment
"you really look beautiful tonight" your hearts don a mask, gain a rhythm, and step two steps closer
"why thank you" your heart extends a rose and is favorably taken, a hand is taken, the dance begins
"especially in this light, right here" your heart asserts a pose, and waits for the music
"no one's ever said that before" the music plays and it leans in for its partners hands
"well...." young hearts lose themselves, a slave to their own slave, as their mask falls to reveal a face
and they dance once more
just like dancing a kiss reveals everything
every sad song that brings you pain
every time youve danced in the rain to dismantle some inner child
every time you've fought the plain and the innocent
and how innocent your lips have been
where they belong
mine belong in forests, spontaneously and under street lamps
and in places i have not yet discovered could hold in a moment of such utter bliss
but my next kiss, will be there
my body lies prepared and i swear
i will not miss but if i do it only means
my wings could not fly faster with your wings
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC
She likes fashion and interviews. I like getting lost.
Sometimes she grabs my bulge,
as she drinks from an aluminum flask.
She told me to rhyme something with 'flask'.
I said, "Fine. In your life, you've been wearing a mask.
But I can see. And you can see. They can't see.
That you are a detached, blond doll
and your back is against the wall,
as I kiss your neck until you're dead."
She said to rhyme something with 'dead'.
I said, "Fine. You ********** in my head.
And it's quarrelsome
that they don't see that you're numb.
I'd pull on your lip, with my teeth.
Dig my hand between your legs.
Just to make you feel. Just to make you feel.
And I study your hairbrush
to see that there are too much
strands of memories from melodies
that lay dormant in ballrooms
and scented kisses
that drip of the misses
in your life and mine."
She said **** me with your words.
I refused because I'd rather watch her bloom
in my dreams than the seams of
a fiber noose that rings loose
the bell in your neck
that sounds until birds fly
and we die-
You look at me,
"Home."
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
She belongs in Cadillacs and lush apartments and big, bright cities
She belongs on the covers of magazines and in the fantasies of boys across the nation
She belongs in four poster beds and silk sheets and decorative pillows
She belongs in high heels and long dresses and expensive perfume
She belongs in perfectly curled hair and flawless makeup
She belongs on red carpets and in the focus of cameras
She belongs in ballrooms and night clubs and fancy hotel rooms
She belongs in loyal arms and a loving heart
She belongs to money and power and fame
And the word stunning belongs to her
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
I'm in love with a boy
Who makes me feel like fried chicken on a sunday
Like the Meat
That I don't eat
I'm an animal
I'm colossal
I'm the ballrooms in his eyes
I'm in love with a boy who makes me feel
Like pancakes on a weekday
We don't do that
In my family
We do grapefruit
cereal
oatmeal
We do not do orange juice
ever
I'm in love with a boy
Like honey in my tea
To take away the bitter
Take away the hunger
Amplify the wonder
And the way we grew together
All the tangles
All the thunder
All the things I never let you--
All the things I should have said to you
I'm in love with a boy
Who feels like sin in the morning
And sweet all the time
Like violence at night
And the freckles on his shoulders call me with words he'd never be able to find
Words that make me blind
The way he makes me feel is like the sun in my eyes
I'm in love with a boy like peaches in the summertime
And apples in the fall
He makes me feel like all the songs
I've never played
All the cobblers I should have baked
I'm my apron
I am taken
I'm the muffins that I baked him
I'm in love with a boy who makes me feel like candles on a birthday cake
Right after they hit the lights
And the sparkle
When the flames jump to the birthday girl's hair
And the scare
And the faces of the parents
All the horrified stares
I'm the 30 unburnt pieces, 45 guests
It's never enough
It's always too much
But I'm in love with this boy
He makes me feel
Like robbing a bank and making a clean get away
And worn out boots with no soles
From running hard and running fast
He makes me feel like guns
And a red hot sun
And the worst blisters of my life
Like fleeing in the night
and I'm your girl, right?
I'm in love with that boy like the first day he saw me
I'm in love with our mythology
and I want him to know
I'm still that girl
It's still that first day
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
Ich fühle mich wie wir in einem früheren Leben erfüllt
(I feel like we met in a former life)
Auch…where are my manners
English, right
I feel like we met not in this life
But before
And by “met” I mean loved
I have no idea how
We share common things
Und our eyes meet whenever we think the other isn’t looking
Maybe I’m going crazy under Hitler’s hand
I don’t feel like I’m in the right state of mind
But I feel like we’ve loved
Once upon a time
Have I met you before
Because you seem super familiar
I think you were my neighbor before I moved
Because I remember the pretty girl
Next door with brown hair
We played in my back yard and pretended to be aliens
Then made macaroni art
That’s us….on a hill….holding hands
You fell and got a boo boo on your elbow
And I put a dinosaur band-aide on it
We road bikes to the park and we swinged
Remember my best friend Johnny? His birthday party?
Well you were there and I got cake in your hair and you cried…
I gave you a gift on valentines day
It was a flower I put in a purple box
my mom planted in my yard
And later she yelled at me and put me in the corner for digging it up
I shared my dairy queen milkshake with you
Even though It was chocolate and that’s my favorite flavor
And I was really surprised because you said that was your favorite too
Do you remember…
No…?
Oh okay sorry.
You can come over and play with some of my toys if you want
I like your shoes…
I met her in a past life,
In February, new grass reaching through snow
This funeral only reminds me of
Vibrations in my spine when she’d leave
Symphony strings come in
Crushing all my Ambien
Recreating Adam and Eve
I could feel my disgusting old heart pulse
When I became her.
When she took over me.
I remember
Watching life go by like movies
Ich erinnere mich (I remember)
Dancing in ballrooms to records
I remember
Young bodies in *** Minds dowsed in ecstasy
I remember you
Our dying won’t stop euphoria like this
It’ll just be put on hold for a while
Emotions becoming a straight beaming line
Because I’ll meet her again
All we’ll do is change the date and time
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 2:17 AM UTC
Benedictine Warlords
Hold ceremonies in ballrooms
Tie knots in dying children’s hair
Demarking havoc to succumb
Red X-es on trees
Placating these
Monsters
These scumbags
These treasons
Against a muck they scoured
A much maligned superfluity
Of words, of thoughts
Of feelings
Of devotion
Sympathy
What of it?
You’ve heard my ideas on living
You’ve killed my attempts
Superavero
Veni
Superavero
Now go, before you learn what life is
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 7:12 PM UTC
Oh, how I pity my poor pessimist
Do you not mind what I scribe?
Does curiosity never approach you
When I know you can't sleep at night
If you do, I hope you discover
That I write simply- you & I.
With my being beyond the horizon
In these words you must rely
A carpenters daughter,
(It's true) I was never taught, how to fix the lonely
But I assure you dear
You won't be in the slightest disappointed
My entire life is an intricate patchwork
Of multiple afflictions
Through hotel rooms & glamour
Abuse & drug addiction
*"Through bathrooms & ballrooms
On dumpsters & heirlooms"
Baby, we'll be fine
I know in my minds eye
We'll be fine*
As for the sea
I feel the vibrato,
A ripple when you're lonely
But the tides will greet you, excited at the pier
To bring you back home to me
For darling,
I long only to bury my tear-stained face
In the man too far to say he's home
I do not choose the life I live but it's the only one I can call my own.
*One day
I promise
You will wake in bliss
Between ruffled sheets
And my petite, contented figure
The pessimist will embody nothing
But the purest form of happiness*
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 8:35 AM UTC
I used to be a
rocking chair
in the home of a lovely
elderly two.
In the summers I sat in the shade
on the porch
that was my world.
But I got tired of going
back and forth
with the same old things
I used to be
a pair of rubber gloves
belonging to the maid
of a grand old palace.
I held the sponges
that cleaned the biggest of ballrooms
and the feather duster
that danced along
the most delicate riches.
But I didn't like
being used
to do someone’s
***** work.
I've been a wish from a genie
(I was taken for granted)
I've been the pencil of an artist
(That job was too sketchy)
I was a sapphire gem in a mineral museum
(But I started feeling really blue)
I was a sunken stone in a rolling river
(But I just couldn't go with the flow)
Though, I don’t regret
a single thing I've been.
Because the best part of imagination
is the only thing about it
that I don’t need to make up:
my mind.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
Through untamed shadows and blurred silhouettes
The moon remembers what the night forgets
it was a time before all, before the time we met
the form of a shadow and my love's silhouette
Gathering darkness of the collective noir
the hellish display of Satan's bazaar.
The passively insane, jokers and boars
of Victorian plays and Spanish guitars!
The view from here is lovely indeed
the vantage point of insanity.
A suit of skin is miraculous, I see
The stunning cloth of evil dreams
My, my, what a treat
ah,Visitors we see
all waiting to share
a shallow moment of care
Please show us, what's new
in the world of the living, this paradigm stew
A dance on the roof summons suspicion
from the mess below of ugly submission
I plead, I implore, abandon all tradition!
Before you pummel down the world's attrition...
I have seen the wonders of the other side.
Where mass ballrooms of dead reside
all swooping, crying, laughing with pride
While the they truly live and you surely die.
The fires of madness, the abundant endeavor
strikes a chord with those, whomever,
enjoy such masked adventures, whichever
Such with Boris, Phil, Julie and Trevor.
beating pain out from the brim
Retching blood and bile from within
Yes, of course I'll obey
Please...could you stay?
Yes my lover, my illustrious shadow tamer
the other that is here but only I can see, my sane reclaimer....
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
Just in case you didn’t know
You are perfect
You are a freak of nature
A happy accident
So fragile
Like some old century vase on a pedestal being thrown across a room
You
Have a voice
A voice that when you speak all I wanna do is stay
You put me in awkward situations
Like how sometimes we sit close and I just wanna put my arm around you
No reason
I just get this urge to do it
How I sometimes just want to tell you how lonely hallways feel,
And how empty the ballrooms are
Why don’t they have those anymore?
‘cause I’d dance with you
Hold you in my arms nothing short of forever
You
are perfect
Because you have eyes
Eyes that see better than most of the blind things
And feet that help you move, but never take you far
When we walk away from each other it always feels like slow motion
And there is strange music in the background that makes me feel like the Beast
I stay up nights just waiting for you
You are perfect
Like shallow breathes of air
After almost drowning
Reminds me life is short
Can you hear it?
That music?
Must be getting ready to leave me again
Just know
before you go
You are perfect
Perfect like
Hands
And old people
Perfect like awkward situations
Like those silly sad reminders that life is short
Just
Perfect
Apr 2, 2011
Apr 2, 2011 at 11:05 AM UTC
black top hats and heretical clowns
surprise! the circus is back in town
ladies and Gentlemen- we've a show tonight
so bed the kids and dim the lights
hotel ballrooms and cheap champagne
silhouettes of Falsehood and the infamous Fame
a gallery of harlots and libertines
blessed with the curse of controversy
suicidal salvations and casualties
religion built the bomb that burned the buildings
a ballet of East making martyr of West
they pulled their own trigger- shot themselves in the chest
creaky pulpits and dusty pews
a prayer to be one of the Chosen Few
but holy water won't cleanse these Sins
in time, all shows must come to an end
so bed the kids and dim the lights
it's time for a panicked revival tonight
clasp your hands- bound by rosary beads
baptism- your wants, prostitution- your needs.
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 4:26 PM UTC
*He asked his wife to get her
dance moves on a christmas night.
To twist and twirl like ballerinas
do in fancy ballrooms. To feel
the heat and vibes and create
a spark tonight. The candles flickering flame was moving
from the left to the right with
such an excite. The flames
went from orange to red every
time his hands slid down on
the small of her back. They
must of blushed while they
did the tango as well. They
must of sighed when they
kissed as the carols went
off. He made love to her
body on that christmas
night. When the lights
went dim and the
flames caressed
and licked the
concrete walls.
While the cold
winter's air
touched their
bodies and skin
as they were
exposed* ~
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
Six steeple towers, cold as steel, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.
Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame, subdued and tame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across the cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in lurid swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars and bare bazaars, though no one's there to fete.
The souls who come with jagged tongue won't sing a silent psalm,
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, and face it with aplomb.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
The Slow Dance, of what does it make you think?
Of summer dresses, ice tea and lemonade
Of ballrooms and masquerades
The Slow Dance, it has a deliberate movement, does it not?
In time you must roll hand in hand
Like lovers cheek to cheek lost in forgotten land
The Slow Dance, but is it a dance?
A waltz, a trot, and a rag time step
You feel secrets that no one knows you've kept
The Slow Dance, surely you see what I mean?
Gravely, I know not what is in store
To end is to begin and find out once more
The Slow Dance, why do only a few take part?
It is meant for one but not for all
Yet many take their step, stutter, and fall
The Slow Dance, when does it end?
Through pain and sorrow of a heavy heart
When it is all too great, you must step apart
The Slow Dance, but how long does it take?
Over in a moment, a decision of rash
The end can be long or just a flash
Ah yes, The Slow Dance is not a dance at all
Just an isolated path sauntered alone
The means to end only a few have shown
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
well? was it worth it, the things we used to do and all the memory warm.
as you trembled with a smile, and all the light on earth fill your heart
down at federal jacks tonight.
so confuse me with your smile
keep me warm today, tonight, tomorrow
and you'll sit, and love the life you have, and drink your coffee to
and just write the poetry, that we make
the ballrooms alomost emty the lights are dim,
it's wonderful to be around to champnge dreams
so confuse me with your smile
keep me warm today, tonight, tomorrow
and you'll sit, and love the life you have, and drink your coffee to
and just write the poetry, that we make
and the timeing was always wrong the weathers changed
and the suns not as warm as your voice,
you my sun, you are my muse, you bring out the best in me
so confuse me with your smile
keep me warm today, tonight, tomorrow
and you'll sit, and love the life you have, and drink your coffee to
and just write the poetry, that we make
.
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
it's like floating
that feeling when you know
you're still on the ground
but you're up in clouds
when you laugh so hard you can't
when you smile so big
you can't stop
it's the feeling of empty corridors
turning into ballrooms
where you dance all night long
conversation turns to song
because you're smiling so much
and laughing so hard
and floating so high
that you're up in the clouds
but your still on the ground
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
sleep is a date with death.
it's a time when your body is present but your conscious is not.
but are you really alive without being conscious?
in sleep your consciousness goes on a journey
taking Death by the hand
and accompanying him to the most majestic of ballrooms
and into the eyes of terrifying storms,
to the highest of mountains
and the deepest of the oceans' chasms,
to the most distant of memories
and the depths of what you had forgotten,
to your most prideful of accomplishments
and the greatest of all of your fears,
to the brightest of hopes and aspirations
and the most vacant corners of darkness.
he shows you what this world has to offer
anything and everything
each journey to be an experience your body may not have the chance to live.
yet every time you arouse from sleep
you awaken with nothing but haze
blurred images being all that your body can comprehend
in comparison to what journeys your mind can traverse.
as you age, your body becomes rickety and wrinkled
barely able to hold back such a bursting mind.
this is the time when your mind does not want to confine itself to a body any longer
it wants to experience more than what this world has to offer,
for in the hours awake within the body
combined with every date with Death
every memory has been made
every child has been born
every tear has been shed
every moment as a human, in body and mind, has been experienced.
your mind is not weak nor weary, rather, it thrives
within a clear container
and all that Death has yet to show you visible in the distance.
once your body can hold you back no longer, it sets you free,
sets your mind free.
that is when Death greets you
just as a peaceful lover would come dawn
and just as affectionately
he would accompany your mind
to everything else there is beyond
being human,
being conscious.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
With the folded nights
And the light-hearted howls
There is nothing to do
Really
But dive into nightmares
Or swan fly
Into oceans of cool clean
Or slow locomotive stares
Or when tired eyes
Of pink tell of sordid images
Smokey feelings into small places
Tight skins
The
Click
Clack
Of crowded hearts
Under electric lights
And perfect ballrooms
Shivers run
Up and
Down
And never stop
Because we haven’t found
A middle
I think of your everything
And think it’s all dirt
Under fingernails
Crawling inside
Your tiny mouth
Where I could go insane
And break my face against
The walls
Everything is so
Beautifully open sometimes
It’s hard to make sense
And yes, I mean this
And all that goes after it
People’s plastic toys get *****
People’s veins bleed dry every night
People’s kids disappear
People’s wives and husbands eat each other
People’s noses press against the cold glass
The dogs bark in the fast morning
And I dare not miss
Those types of things
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 9:35 AM UTC