I was sipping sweet sorrow
right through his broken arrow.
Silly thoughts of sometime last January:
We proclaimed our willingness to leave
our lovers in padded karaoke kissing booths–
Then, shared more than a glass or two
behind frosted windows.
I still see him whenever I please,
but his pillow hair is made of dreams.
Pretending nothing happened?
Telling lies for we must not tell the truth?
Every time you accidentally mention my name,
brush me off your shoulder, edge a little closer
on a floral couch…
When I rested my head on your shoulder
on the train I wished you were mine again.
Even if you were disguised behind
a handsome strangers eyes,
the softness of your shirt gave rise
to the silentest of cries.
I could not believe that this dream
was sure to leave. I look for you night
after night until I get your face just right.
It’s comforting, there is no ring.
Sometimes, these strangers speak what you cannot.
Sometimes I think: I think, you like him, I think he likes you.
Thanks, smiling foreign dude!
A butterscotch shot, you’ll feel it in your sleep
with no hint lingering on your waking kiss.
I roll out of bed and try to remember
if I was dreaming of now or September,
under oak and apple trees
while we run from cops, skin our knees.
If this were the last moment of my life,
I would be sad. Accepting that this moment,
aside from all the noise of machines in the distance and
the strange fellow with the grey hooded sweatshirt
that just walked by is perfect:
I am sitting in the shade. I hear the spinning spokes
of a ten speed bike as I want for the clock to strike
the afternoon with four loud booms.
Chimes that string the leaves together
only so they can grow weak and detach…
I am sitting in the shade I hear the spinning spokes
of a ten speed bike as I want for the clock to strike
the afternoon with four loud booms.
Chimes that string the leaves together
only so they can grow weak and detach.
I’m sitting at the drug store again trying to score drugs again.
Can’t say right when it began, only I can…
The date is meaningless, the occasion trivial
like the way it gets hot in a parked car.
The way he won’t answer even when I somehow know the answer.
Please pick me up, Indian Summer, way too hot for October!
Imagine haunted houses sweltering in this early autumn heat.
Can’t wait for things to cool down, burn my own tongue sometimes…
Get so anxious, wonder how close I am to the edge.
Maybe this is out of line. Maybe it’s all your fault.
DREAMS
MEAN
STAND
SCREAM
STAY
DREAM
SILLY
DREAM
ANY
THING
SHOULDN’T
MUSTN’T
WAKE
UP
SCENES
SEE
STAY
CLOSE
GHOST
blastedgoat says: I coined a new word and a brand new spam poem, eat it up, consumies! Holy crap, there’s another one!
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