To those who still read.. thanks for being patient. Reasons for my absence on my Live Journal. www.livejournal.com/users/no_bones. Finally, a new poem. May not be done yet. We'll see.
LOVE SONG
I plant kisses strategically down your spine in an erotic Morse code. Tapping the prologue of our story onto the nape of your neck. We'll use the path from your thoughts to the journeys end, between your thighs, to record the changing flavors of our history, unfolding like waves of gooseflesh, being traced with crooked fingers. Our rhapsodic melody being set to a concrete rhythm. The lyrics are the images we dream of who we are, versus what we are, versus what we might be. Poison for you and just a new drug for me.
And we'll fuck lyrics in scratchy throat cries, like Tom Waits singing a final goodbye dirge at a funeral for the last of his pure, boy-like notions. The sweat of my heart trapped like a love-sick soldier with safety behind him and miles of nothing more ahead. Thinking of nothing more than the Polynesian whore he made love to once long ago in his bed.
Let's let our warning signs be track marks on the forearms of romance junkies still in denial, itching to turn that next page. Let's hit sour notes on the heart strings of our alonliness and free associate off of bad puns like 'heart strings don't fret'. Let's play child pianos and pots and pans on the linoleum floor of our awkward fireplace passion plays.
I'll paw at pen caps for attention. I'll soak up red wine with wool socks and walk on canvases to heighten the tension. I'll say whatever I must and do whatever it takes. I'll pacify the lie with a morning goodbye to further the stakes. And pull the blinds on the morning, drawing out the night with falling back asleep to the droning tone of the ceiling fan, sweeping by like a second hand ticking off moments lost for good. The strange stains on the foreign moon-like surface of my blue cotton sheets will record the events of this, like sugar and spice. And I begin to negotiate the price.
Just ask.
How much?
How much for some ass that leaves a dent on her side of the bed that I miss so much? How much?
Dumb luck, fucker, that I can sing along like I already knew the words to this song. And we will fill the void in one and other. Stopping the poetry with a mixture of cum and blood, until I trick myself that it might be love. And new dents form on old mattresses, making room for new lust songs and new lullabies. And your love cries will then be the new wrinkles around my eyes.
Shhhh.
The sun is setting on my bedroom wall.
My bed sheets are a
You are my Polynesian doll.
And I am a soldier.
Still running for safety.
¶ 12:34 PM 3 comments
