Oh.

The most important thing, he said,
was the screen on his only window.
Because it's one thing to be hot,
it's another to be hot and bothered.

T'ain't no sin to take off your skin and dance around in your bones...

Contrasting messages in images
fade into the walls where love
actually means nothing despite its focus.

Poison frogs poison boldface
poison mushrooms poison symbols
and a dark cloud looms

over the western front, less dominant
than your alluring flower that
invites my wandering eyes to bed

and holds me there with illegible
written word visible through panted
breath and excited glare.

I'm a sack of broken eggs...

They say I have strange eyes
and strange sound
like a deaf-blind mute that still
still
still
still
still
still
still
still
gives his senses a tickle.

Curled up on the floor where I belong...

She searches for holes
in the sore floor beneath her;
stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp

Let them brush your rock and roll hair...

The strawberries are in season
and the trees along the road sway
sway to the beat in the car
of hungover hearts leaving a good time
in a city that already feels like mold.

You'll be calling out my name when you need someone to blame...

GOD!
I wanted to tell you
when you said "used book store"
all about the ones I visited.
I wanted to tell you about the gems --
all the ones I own --
and tell you how fortune finds me.

DAMNIT!
You told me about your practice;
this strange view of the world from mountainous plains.
I looked second-hand through your Viewmaster
to find the world colourful, naked, and needy.
You've given an identity the need for an identity
and tears ocean-wide scar(s) stretch/fall on my back.

CHRIST!
I've always been blasphemous, but said no wrong
and you listened, replied, tongue-lashing my frontal lobe.
These pictures of you display dichotomy I love:
The unremarkable you, a snap-shot of still potential
and the remarkable you, commanding my forced subtlety.
When I learned your last name, I just hoped you hated Frank.

FUCK!
When you left last night, I was drunk.
The alcohol -- pardon the cliche -- had nothing to do with it.
And I can't help but feel I've lied to you
about who and what I am -- like Goodman pretending to be Candy.
Forgive me, m'lady, but if I could only be a knight
rather than dress as one to fool you.

Tied down to my bed, feet cold and eyes red.

The empty wine bottle's contours
feel like the pit of my stomach
when I dream I'm falling
from Mount Olympus.

I'll be your Hephaestus, baby,
if you'll just be a dear
and break my legs.





(Side note: Seven lines, imperfectly divided, are just unlucky.)