Chin UpAnd sometimes, coated and layeredwith tens of scores of others' eyeswe forget the word 'lonely' -so when it flings asheswe blink, and are blinded.
summer poemyou used to say it wasthe only time of yearthat actually deserved to be called aseason,when thesweat on our faces shone likesticky cellophane, and weran through sprinklers ifno one was looking.with damp undershirts andice-clinking glasses andasphalt smoking heatand dust - you saideveryone's eyes were a little bit brighter,like we wereborrowing something [life]from the sun.you walked around your little apartment, smilingin thongs you changed twice a day, when you could -laughingabout how funnythe AC chose right now to break,and you'd look outside and smirk attired peoplecrossing the street just to walk in the shade.and i'd spend all day justwaiting for a showeri'd feel dirty again half an hour after taking.then i'd lie there at night with thewindows wide open andyour hot body drapedover mine,and i'd wish i didn'thave to share that bed with you.you'd snuggle closer and whispersomething sweet,and i'd pretend i'd fallen asleep.
ShoutShout.Shout so your voice is heardShout above those trying to bring you downShout when you're with friendsShout to protect the ones you loveShout and show your true selfShout cheers and try hardShout until your lungs give outShout until you have no angerShout until you feel no fearShout while living each day to it's fullestShout when the seasons changeShout when you feel freeWhisper.Whisper your love of those moments held dear
Winter.As he talks, I imaginethe words are tiny icicles,falling from the awning of a late afternoonto pluck holes in my eyes(leaving tattoosall over my retinas)."All the better to smell you with, my dear," I'll say to the girl he's rememberedwhen he leads me to drink fromher trough of tears;"All the better to hear how we harmonize."No black lace or lillies stargazing from the sidewalkof her bedside, no booksenscribed in braile or thebent knees of leaving;just smoke and stale breadcrumbs,guiding her frail understudythrough cold eveningsnow.
nervous behaviori was born in a thicket of woods.thicket.it means there were way too many fucking trees.the briars were sharper than the hypodermic needlesi stuck in my arms a thousand times when i spent a yearin the city. i forgot what it meant to feel.i just remember bleeding all the time.i was jesus.my mom didn't love me.she wasn't the mothering type.she was the surgery type.the type who blamed me for her sagging tits and rounded belly.she had me decades ago, i said, she can't keep blaming me.that earned me a punch in the face.i liked the way the blood tasted.that's how i got into it.i didn't think i'd get out.i didn't want to get out.that's what love'll do to you.now i'm living with clean veins and puncture mark scars,walking down the street with no second glancesat the wide, hollowed eyes i no longer have.god i miss the screaming,look at the monster, daddy! look! his veins, daddy, his veins!sh, honey, don't point at that man. he is a sad man.and i'd laugh
HitchhikerI am counting cars the same wayI count fishes in my sea.But it is murky like suffocating drainschoking words I can't take backa lonely side puddle on the road.I don't look at the metal bodiesbut the warm breathing onesfrom rolled-down windows, carefree lollipop wrappersbobbing mainstream music.I count the drivers and passengers smilesand theirs is more than the ones you give me.I understand.I guess your car and try to find it anyway.Is it ferrari red?Like a horse with electric hoovesthundering my loose earthwith ridge musclesfearless mane hair?Is it a monster truck?Like an armoured hunchbackdistrusting eyesbanged up front-gate grin?I'm beginning to think whatever it isit's black.As your leather jacket that collects nightmare sweatold tearshands too young to belong toParkinson.As your pencilled past thatcolours both our lives.Baby, I have washed-up nickels.I'll take the bus.
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