Thursday, April 11, 2013

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:
Year 2:
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,

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