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Poetric Systim
16 November 2009 01:04Some people’s entire lives are suicide notes and their deaths make us suddenly literate, make us take off our Coke-bottle glasses and look at it with 20/20 hindsight.
Not all chests contain treasure.
Every relationship is a living organism. At one end, it’s all lips and mouth, talking and kissing, eating and sucking, smiling and drooling. At the other end, it’s all shit and one asshole.
My love used to be a crack whore. Now it’s found God and is a permanently smiling rollergirl. Dry and strong and shockingly weathered. A zombie happy to be alive.
These days I feel as out of place and as unused as a zamboni machine in Trinidad.
These square inches are black-hole Christmas cards from future selves warning me not to change the timeline. They want to exist and I have the power to change them into something better.
Twenty-six purses lift my skin away and peek. A slip of the young. It’s a street-fight defense out of place in the bedroom. The pages of my dictionary are recorded on the crushed tiger tongues of promised credit. This handle of corn-coffee trapeze wishes longingly for the simple, simple ground of footstep after footstep. We are restrictions placed on barely contained explosives and I’m hungry for the train-track rhythm of your jungle teeth. I want a stork fight.
It’s taking under most nights. There’s a wonder fluffing pillows and two terrors battling under the plant leaves near the crack of the door that’s been left open. How many millionaires?
We’re learning.
tags
Not all chests contain treasure.
Every relationship is a living organism. At one end, it’s all lips and mouth, talking and kissing, eating and sucking, smiling and drooling. At the other end, it’s all shit and one asshole.
My love used to be a crack whore. Now it’s found God and is a permanently smiling rollergirl. Dry and strong and shockingly weathered. A zombie happy to be alive.
These days I feel as out of place and as unused as a zamboni machine in Trinidad.
These square inches are black-hole Christmas cards from future selves warning me not to change the timeline. They want to exist and I have the power to change them into something better.
Twenty-six purses lift my skin away and peek. A slip of the young. It’s a street-fight defense out of place in the bedroom. The pages of my dictionary are recorded on the crushed tiger tongues of promised credit. This handle of corn-coffee trapeze wishes longingly for the simple, simple ground of footstep after footstep. We are restrictions placed on barely contained explosives and I’m hungry for the train-track rhythm of your jungle teeth. I want a stork fight.
It’s taking under most nights. There’s a wonder fluffing pillows and two terrors battling under the plant leaves near the crack of the door that’s been left open. How many millionaires?
We’re learning.
tags