and in which this is how i see the world

You Took Me To The Sea And I Forgot To Count The Days

Fold small pieces of paper memories – objects in motion hold no regards to personal injustice. Looking in your eyes I find ruminates of rejected pigments of your lack of momentum. You falter on the flaws of mine and the perversion of finger tips on smooth skin. In the remaining afterglow of havoc formed by cries of thunder, the motorists on the street below have little trouble commuting while we speak slowly words only poets and bakers know. We fold like croissants into each other and merge in a combination of cheesecake and Marion berry – perfection comes in time.

Eyes closed and whispered “be patient” and I try but I fail and the dough falls and you lose touch. Inside my answers lay a question not ready to be posed but in order to continue we must address what we already have at stake.

In a port by the sea we lost days in discipline of unanswered cell phones and mindless self indulgence. In the bookstore we stole used books that needed to be freed and drank coffee and when in the silence of the small of your back we looked forwards towards Babylon and lost again what we had failed hard to regain.
Years later, when all has healed, we shall return to the city by the sea and find lust and love in the constellations of streetlights and the moon that sits atop the waters edge.

There is a sorrowful tenderness but also an emotional expressionism which augments an ectoplasmic eeriness. Caressing your words so softly, careful they might fall through the cracks of time, I slide into the idea of songs, sonnets and sorrow.

Unlikely

Pieces of recent moments are lining up in the doorway – the coffee pot watching us make love and the bookshelf is falling to pieces. You are a Catcher in the Rye kind of liar and I can’t seem to distinguish reality from fantasy. The augmented adjacent sounds of perversion—love and redemption – scatter on my skin with your fingers tracing the lines of all decent regrets.

Evening dawns and the fleeting happiness goes with the light. Whiskey and poetry merge in a combined hatred of each other. I’m trying to resemble a person not suffering in jest of needles and love. You line up soldiers on the table – napoleons army crashing wave after wave down the esophagus – somewhere far away the sky cries out in thunder – and all I do in sit on my stairs and portray a slow suicide.

But in the positive syncopation of apparent behavior -- your vulgar silence offends me. I am not conveniently described but yet there is a simplicity in my seven types of ambiguity. Have heard rumors of who I used to be? To tell the truth I started most of them. There is a sadness in the various positions of vocal chords.