worlds converge in a papercup
come, come you on the tambourine
me on the harmonica
let's make music without the adjectives
let's live on the jingle-jangle of coins
 
tara na! this pavement
is our carnegie; metaphors
sans adverbs -- no illusions, no fantasies.
you and me and this street --
dancing like gypsies on a prairie
 
later tonight, while the moon watches over
we'll upstage the stars
with **** adverbs & adjectives

i am talking about her, dressed in black silhouette, painted with montage,
i can feel her presence, rubbing across the tips of my tongue, salsa through my hair.
her jet black soul piercing into me, a rembrandt only time is seduced to.
i am talking about her, noir necklace, twelve beads, wild heart, fantasy that teases my seclusion.
i am talking about midnight, her winds  her flair, her grotesque, everytime i close my balcony door,
at 1am in the morning hoping the seduction ends and reality sets in on this papercup life.

No dream walker will come here
at the edge of lunar sighting
late afterglow begun to fade
by the law of nature you are bond to breed

I'll sigh celestial breathe
some gentle wind shall cool the heat of this ascending sun
it's your shallow skin
it's your circle or something's labyrinth

by this love-sick queen I begun to sweat

oh what a great deal dwelt upon my suit
or was it your lips worse for one poor kiss

and the world started turn from my eyes once again
it was a papercup where you've fallen into
your heart lights more
you are off the ground

...

yes no dream walker will come here
but I will make a shadow for you of my hairs
if they burnt too, I'll quench them with my tears
so starts pretend that's all gonna be alright

faith once you've had was fade to grey
and left the stain indeed on a papercup
where you have fallen into your heart's light
the more i am off the ground

so I lay my self underneath the world I've described in a papercup
where you have fallen into my heart
the more it's off the ground

Sunday morning monologues
Front row fixtures
Dreamy papercup dialogues
And cracked tile constellations.

It's safe inside these walls
Safe, they scream, safe
And behind my smiles and uplifted hands is
My never ending unease.

Sunday morning monologues
Front row fakes
Sunshine maple tree jogs
And stained tile motivations.

I could stand up
Leave those lyrics running
Walk out
And never come back.

Or take to the mic
And scream every last
One of my insecurities
To the whole dang world.

But I'll never
Do either.

Sunday morning monologues
And front row blanks.

i am a blade tucked safely in Tupperware
my lonely teeth hidden under clammy pillow
feel these nightmares like they were yours
i could blush with you all night
when my mouth feels dry
it is not from the absence of presence
but from the rotundity cascade
that your hair ebbs as it collides with mine
i'd like to think this folly is something
i can put on the centerfold
a gift too pronounced with an utter
of my masked gravity inside all the
beer you pour into a proud papercup
days shrink into nothingness

Darkness, a clasping press around a heart,
The surreal motions of city life in the rain
Slowly drifting, defenseless as I tear apart
Bothered nonchalance, letting in the pain.

A papercup of coffee, a vice for contemplation
Amidst the pristine smiles which is yet to conceive
The fleeting awareness of the threat of preparation,
Sooner, at least once, one finds a way to leave.

Nothingness is a kind of gift too,
But it can also be cruelly taken away
Everything is true when nothing is true
For those sighs that hurry up to end the day.
Drifting in guardless cautiousness,
Hoping amidst the dire hopelessness.

Dec.17, 2024