--for those of the sea
Moments
These words of a diary, he burned
with first born forgotten puppets strung
low across gravel pits,
kicked and ripped
worn in a desert mission with orders
burned in his skin on protocols set to accomplish:
abort
by idle creation. He supervised
cremation of the shadow,
shadows cute in their big queer shapes
and silent in their crying dying ember
escapes; burned all the past that day
and tired of playing Dante,
turn of a head to the sun
desired to live on in hell,
walks across Pluto because love
was permanent if
Persephone ate fruit, but walks
among graves showed me
I regretted the day like I shot him,
and I missed them like the flesh
of the words burned buried
in these graves, with your names
and my words to this day,
more than death can carry.
So I smeared all my entrails with
oil and acrylic mixed
in excrement too, across
the front lawn of the governor's yard, because
"it was beautiful" she had said "to fuck up
some random stranger's day" before we kissed
about two hours too late, knee deep in excuses
to claw out from parental purgatory,
and I still think we were fourteen and fifteen
the first time we fucked
the rules in a hurry, because in a quickie
to breath means we lose something
we need to live; what she said
when she spat jazz tunes in Seattle "you
live to lose something you need,
butter up muffin poot" and when I buy muffins
with the fat from my cheeks, she sings
in the puddle on streets when I glance in the windows
at Tiffany's
or after the snow in Toronto, because
I am poor in spirits, not poverty
since I shot him across the street in the back,
tore straight his eighth vertebrae
and splattered it with plaid and grey
clouds reflected in puddles on foggy
London streets,
just to hear him say "a stroke of mercy
and that's all I'll say, modern arts'
just kinda gay".
Frayed tongues and sexual
furtive winks in obfuscating French,
the Greek Gods and pastures
and flying planes, I kissed goodbye
that day the words
you have given me,
and forgot to say that bugs are brittle
in their dreams and their sleep and die
quick without much to think, so please
try harder and be a tree,
and when I am gone I am gone, somewhere
I cannot touch the roses or prick thorns with my blood,
smoking joints of words curled up and burned
like my past would enjoy circles and solitude.
Dream of me, forget of me, these moments where
I loved all too much to fold a paper plane to toss round the world;
I will dream of impressions,
try never to love again,
but I will fail to bury these bodies
in the graveyard closet,
that's knocked just ajar to lure me back in,
full of un-pulled strings in whispers
of better days to come.
