January 2009
Over (you).
Talk to me about it, darling. Her legs are over your shoulders and her body has your body and the only thing you are considering are the seconds between now and when you’ll climb back into your clothes and onto the subway while she drinks in the silence, the chill and a glass of water.
Talk to me about it, darling. When you ride the subway alone after dark, you hear your thoughts echo off...
IF.
I’m bringing your hair to the table by the fistful.
Your walls are furnished with napkins touched to my lips.
Each time I whisper “I love you” to strangers in alleyways,
I picture you whispering it back into my mouth.
It means less now.
I’m watching the blood through your veins, like an atlas.
Not of where we’re been, but where we’re going to stop...
ooh ahh.
like you’re in love, but only sort of - waking up to the scent of someone else on your pillow - unfamiliar but still, an old rememberance - of a taste somewhere between soap and - sex - dark alley in deep deep june - hands like bumblebees, hot - and busy with the summer breeze like, dizzy with the energetic air - sometimes, the letters are just shapes and you pretend like - i’m just a...
Of material, and space.
I sit in your car, holding my knees to my chest, and turn the heavy metal down - until it sounds like static, or nothing at all. You take your steps quickly and knock on the door, I am careful to avoid looking. And so, I don’t see her face when she answers your call. And I don’t...
Your girl calls you: Every night after midnight with vodka on her tongue, names your mother did when you were small, on none of your shit.
You call her yours because when she is folded into your bed, she is less than you, and you know you make her more. Your half is always greater than hers.
She is all syrup and no substance. You are too much of everything.
Be Without.
Small songs from
tiny mouths
with no lips for
kissing and
little bodies on air
and no hands
to hold onto.
According to my
mathematic mind,
as density
decreases,
so do worries:
When you have
no lips - it doesn’t
matter when
no one kisses you
and
when you have
no hands - you
don’t seek out
someone to hold
them.
Perched on a
telephone pole,
delicate notes
travel down the
wires;...
High Asterisk
dearoldlove:
When you said “I love you,” you forgot to add, “But I love drugs more.”
alone, with your face in the windows of the ship, it’s hull cracking with the timbre of your voice
as you intonate: all i need is one chance to move and feel the shift of the tides. the split is eventual
and your heavy hands only help sink the already wrecked exoskeleton: my hands are chimes, ringing
into the night.
Be Specific
dearoldlove:
When you convinced me to be friends, you should have told me you were going to be a bad friend.
Of leaving, and of being left.
When he left, we left too. The house stands vacant when he next stands in the doorway, pockets empty and eyes that can finally see the cracks in the walls, permeating from the inside out.
Under her breath, and in between them, she canonizes his name, in absentia. When she thinks of him now, it is as letters in a drawer, a vague sense of home which her new foundation lacks, and the sound of a...
Fuck you.
We watch the enemies from our bedroom window perch: Advancing slowly And as their backs arch Against the torq of their bows I learn all the differences between you and me and 4am.
Cover(t)
the urban subterfuge of meeting you here:
legs crossed, leaning against brick, cigarette in hand
eyes stalking passerbys, Bob Dylan impression
in the back pocket of your real Levis with your faux RayBans
against your empty wallet.
too many glassfuls of whiskey are in my blood
when your tongue meets mine in a dance club
where they still have strobe lights and it isn’t 1987.
and too many...
the Moldy Peaches
“I put on my hood and walked away, that doesn’t mean I don’t like you. And besides you’re probably holding hands with some skinny, pretty girl that likes to talk about bands and all I want to do is ride bikes with you and stay up late and watch cartoons.”
excerpt from "the Jerk" by Jeffrey McDaniel
You’re a dirty little windshield. I’m standing behind you on the subway, hard as calculus. My breath be sticking to your neck like graffiti. I’m sitting opposite you in the bar, waiting for you to uncross your boundaries. I want to rip off your logic and make passionate sense to you. I want to ride in the swing of your hips. My fingers will be digging up in you like quotation...