One day I will learn to find Times New Roman
as beautiful as the words I set down.
I.
You bleed fiber under a sweaty sun,
perspiration dribbling from heavens and onto our
parched tongues, so desperate and sun poisoned.
Brass glimmering, flashing the sign of focus –
broken by the tremor of your knees.
But still, you are vibrant, although we are
well aware we are smaller than beautiful, but just
as intense. It’s because of the skin,
bulging and insisting that fate and fantasies
often coincide.
(This is the fucking twilight)
I am as you are: eyes on grass blades and other
growing things, things tangible and unafraid.
But our groping hands find home in the most dreadful places:
deep, dark caverns that spit storm waters into the
most pristine tunnels of my mind.
Dragging crimson paintbrushes down your neck and
into the further poisoned aorta, you do not object,
but moan, “[dying] pain’s a pleasure”
Things slide too easily in sunlight,
my tongue tastes salt and thirst flows freely
down the embankments of this cacophony.
II.
It was twelve week and three days later that he found
she was a wall-screamer, a gypsy in dance and
completely lost in crunching numbers and nothing more that
rhapsody and definitions, coke cans and constant
midnights wear she’d pour over him, herself –
Pour our themselves over each other, only cloak and dagger
for clothing, only liquescent emotions on their eyes.
So this is the prize of bloodless battles.
“Darling, does love make you or
do you make love?” Cryptic, unnamed tombs
of questions. Release in a flurry, breath out.
“Why call me angel when I kill you twice over,
fuck you thrice harder and scream the name of Jesus
when you are in my lap?” – resonance
“You’re the best I’ll ever have,” says his cigarette,
But his eyes twinkle from the designs of Black Widows,
spider webs that weave him in the room,
weave him back into you.
Twelve weeks and four days later
he still won’t know her name.
III.
It’s too late to create, find or save you.
If history repeated itself, we’d have given up already and
named a city of broken glass (rose petals stolen)
after you, for who would ever want Paris when we could have
dissonance, selfishness and flesh?
Helen was never a god, she was a whore and
there is a reason men are grounded, why we
walk out of time. That is why Rome was built on media,
why times are never new and neither are you.
You left fiber blood all over my carpet,
stains that read:
Typeface never had to do with keys.
other than that i don't really know what to say. it's such a unique writing style there's not much to be said as for improvement on it. it's intriguing, mind-boggling and entertaining. i'd love to hear in normal, "dumbed-down" language what this poem is about. kind of like shakespeare for dummies. anyway: excellent work!
Gender:
Points: 890
Reviews: 688