my dear

My dear, the coming of the night has always knocked a fist through your ear hole.
kneading the wet filling
You pray at the stars. Blaming them for my impatience, for my animal prowess.
Rag dolls hide and seek. sneering at our clasped face.

My dear, it is beyond the lit screens of righteousness that we dive.
When God looks at us and says "don't be a fool"
It is of towel wrapped bodies we dream
we wake entangled, but unfulfilled.

My dear, patience as I leaf through lullaby pages.
waiting for the medicine to kick in.
I pump affection through insomnia
while you lie unaware.

Take four.

Scene one: Night. The kind of night where your heart turns in your stomach until sleeping slips into your subconscious.
They met each other in secret on the blacktop of a school playground.
It was forbidden, which made the mist feel like a whisper across the shoulder.
The stars always shine brighter in outlandish locations, but tonight they were asleep in their black cubicles.
The swings drifted with the wind, while they talked about nothing.
They talked how people talk when they don't know what to say.
Putting a face to the words.
He was distracted
The scene that wrote their history.

Scene two: The city.

And His Majesty Fell.

The king is dying on his thrown of crucifixes.
Escorted by blindingly truthful men.
we are fueled by gasoline and nicotine
While his crown pierces his temples
Prophets of internet porn sites
Because starving children make for boring television. 


The king's feet finally fall to the floor
crying wine.
His ribs can count the remaining hours.
His reign splashes on the back walls of shopping malls
advertised with the toddler's lingerie.


And we laugh, while his children cross themselves
in consolation.

Family portraits crack
The black suits and war ribbons can't cover the monarchy's demise.
Because none of our sons (are strong enough)
can handle the power.

The king decides to sign a paper
and take a last breath.
His blue tinted abdomen deflates
a flesh, slowly decomposing.
Nailed to his grave
we devour the sickly spectacle.


He holds up a gun
and we slit his throat.

Biting my Nails.

I put the song on repeat
looping the microphone hand claps
breathing in your face
and the dusted theater seats.

I didn't care that everyone could see
us make love with our eyes.
illuminated columns of blue
because we were children
discovering

I put the song on repeat
to remember the strangers apartments
and the unplanned bus stops
rummaging through city walls.

his voice begged for me to listen
and when the song stopped repeating
we got back on the train
and drove to bed.

but I'm still riding
and his song is still repeating
because my stop never came.

I Have Been Hiding.

I pray

I pray
disjointed serenades
played by a band of one
keeping the monsters at bay
I pray for the bed wetters
thumbsuckers
I pray because my god could be out there
and one man bands
side show freaks
Come join us on our search
for youth
for fountains
for prayer.
It seems futile
until we reach the city of gold.
our El Dorado.
I pray
for a cure
from ourselves.
selfishness
There are algorithms
for snow
and smoke
there are algorithms
For god.
So find the patterns
and our prayers will be answered.

Because You Told Me So.

She kisses the stone frozen in her hands
pretending the human tendencies are actually human.
mocking the other couples for indecency.

She was an illusionist
acrobatic.
but since the accident
she can do nothing but a somersault
with her eyes.

Turning the stone upside down will do no good
he's still inactive
maybe just sleeping
"We'll be better... soon"
Someday.

She hands the stone over
she knows, in some one else's hands
it will come to life
in the familiar warmth of another acrobat.

The facade will shatter

too late.

And we're back to the beginning.
The very first meeting, in halls in chrome. It doesn't matter what we've been through. What days we spent high on your couch. Or vomiting just to see each other. All of that is passed, and erased, and rewritten. We scribe a novel for the insane. Those with unstable minds are the only who understand us. Or us, eachother. For we will always understand. Even when we reject it.
I wore your shirt. You, my sock. and each other's lips.
smell is the closest sense to memory. Maybe my hippocampus is broken. It keeps skipping, and disguising itself as a new discovery.
But it's old news. And still so intricate.
I am awake again. Talking to you was never hard.