I had no idea where to put this, so if this place seems wrong let me know. I'm hoping to get some decent feedback on this. I wrote this in April. Enjoy.







Four squared and below, born in a leap year

Surrounded by goldenrod and stringed shadows

That pluck away silently in the night

And etch away their surroundings piece by piece

Until all that's left is his broken romance

And a lie upon his cheek.



Elly, darling,

Where is your worldress?

Tell me, darling,

Where is my infared, where is my soldier,

Where is my monster, where is my truth?

Where are flashing white pieces of me

Gathered in elegant, dark places

And satiny shadows of yesterdays spent gathered 

Inside myself, inside my last piece of this,

My music and life,

Where is my life inside the infared, beyond their radar,

Tucked inside the pearly pockets of boys with

Guitar picks smacked with tiny pit-pats between their lips

Strumming out the words of delusion I gather

Inside myself for the time being.



He is my last, my one out of four, my guilty pleasure,

My not-quite sorrow, my mystery novel, and everything else.



The blue interior of the things I wish for on red stars over swingsets,

And the exterior of all my faults.



You, my sensation,

My very first sentimental longing outside the eye,

I am your worldress, your lipstick, your chalice of crystalized symphonies,

Your kamikaze, and your alternate ending

With a breath against your mouth as I inhale

The songs and stories inside you

As guitars play themselves with such abandon

While musicians make love against your reflection in the sky

That are too cold for themselves

With girls who are not my opposite but myself

Another sameness, another piece of me tucked away

Inside of you, us...



Inside our spiral shell inside of the mind of something

More powerful than dreams of androgynous figures 

Leaning against telephone polls, underneath hanging black wires

That race to the sky

A look on their mouths, 

And fourteen away from the last spoken word

And the disconnection of the fingertips

And cells.



(We are all disconnected.)