echo clinks of water on chains of concrete forming slivers of the
false world
fake which can't sing
you in your silver shoes with the
silver rain leaving metallic stains down your cheeks
haven't you ever hated the silence of the world
when there is no rain and the hush of the sun is deafening
i know i have
hey you in your emerald tie with the emerald bubbles of water in your eyes
eyes which waltz from one object to another one glimmer to another
and sometimes the objects of your dalliance dance back
have you enough energy to run for the both of us
to get us out of this brown tangle of stringy branches
have you a loud enough voice to sing for the both of us and reach the sky
tickle it to make it weep with rain
and your eyes can become an oil painting again
i'm sick of this “new you”
you say that happiness makes me unproductive
in that venom dark voice of yours those pills they give you make you stupid
they steal your voice
you with the red eyelashes and the black lips which hold the tiniest droplets of red rain
you reflect in the coke puddles on the city streets
you reflect the pastels of the real world
you pick up your brick and hurl it at the sky and by god it never comes down
so my eyes are sticky taped to the blue waiting
for any sign of a speck being flung from the sky
but not a single dot
so you in your blue canvas never die and leave me to fend for myself
i fear if you go so will i soon enough because without you
i don't think the world would take me
who am i without you
not much perhaps
but i would rather stay mute with wide open eyes that see the glowing beauty of the world around me
be blind and shout my love what good does it bring you
my eyes would stay a little pink but I'm not sure and
perhaps my eyelashes would stay a little blue
but the world has deceived before
can't the inky red of the sun enclose you in this sanctuary of the morning
like the soft wisps of smoke that follow you every where you go
along every road every trail you leave behind the taste of strawberry milk
but the pink of your world always was liquefied
hey you with the black wounds on your arm that send out jagged rips of fire and smoke
hey you with the black cut on your head with the stains of blood looking pretty
but almost too pretty
i think you went for that depressed beauty suffering artist face
so cliché
with the graze on your knee
from the time you slipped on red wine and went skidding into thorns
are you OK
i can see the tears welling
like hot soapy bubbles
