3 Years Time.

(C)ash  Only

Lonely and lungs full

We form smoke rings with

lips pursed.

I mention women

and that’s the last of it.

black and white squares

stand under pairings

of artsy fartsy thick rimmed

and beautiful blonde dealings

through films and tobacco

tattoos and taboos

Meeting in basement parties

Befriends make out buddies.

Becoming mean and spiteful

blending into my surroundings:

a cheetah finding his spots amongst ash trays

and bargain bins, and pass go educations

When I leave the house check the mirror thrice

once more in the car window

two more times on the way down the hill

and I catch a glance in the bus

I don’t feel safe in this skin

I mean I don’t feel a-t-t-r-active.

To scan the room,

eyes shoot to cleavage of

deep v-necks and weekend matches.

This time it was too rough,

ice next time, yes we should get ice. 

Il ne se passe.

Piecing the ceramic

into understandable sights

for far away voyeurs.

And like bull to the shop

i'll set my horns about the ground

to wreck who and what I can.

Becoming, knowing my friend

to see what I need to be.

Hawthorne effect sets in

Reflective rainbow oil spills off

urbania’s streets to my lungs

Red Hand
“Don’t do it.”

White Man.
“Let me go.”

Red hand wrapped tight

around the cheek of soft

French whispers.

Warm rain and cold days

You can borrow this hoodie

There’s a story behind it

a few for what’s in my pockets too.

A lighter for no reason,

except when I start smoking

after a girl who does the same

“When In Rome…” When In Rome.

a black book for thoughts & occasional dreams

of anonymous  photographic queens.

The title? There’s a story behind that too.

I hide behind my lobes, and drown in clothes

and those smoke filled lungs and juice.

I hide in the fact

that every little line

that’s been written since your hiatus

hasn’t been condemning you

but to pick up where you left off

of things that left me.

Year 1:

Friendship

Year 2:

Confidence

Year 3:
Morality & me.

When I was with you the writing stopped

which I should’ve taken as

not the first, but one of many bad omens

But “Il ne se passe.” You'd say:

"It happens."

_____________________________________________________________

Well, at least I wrote something on National Poetry Month.

Godspeed & Goodnight,
C.B.