Month: January 2015

Happy New Year

(I wrote this in the first few hours of 2015. For some reason I’m only publishing it now.)

Happy new year!
Year, tear, steer, fear
Far – near
There! That’s all the useless rhymes
Out of way – now maybe I can write
The irregular details and discordant –
Facts, the things that don’t rhyme
But are – most important
I wished we could bike together on the eve –
Of the new year, and with stereos strapped to our bikes, sing:
“Happy new year, you assholes!” –
sing until our hearts bleed a little;
the spittle from our mouths would tell me maybe,
maybe we’re singing loud enough –
baby, I don’t –
I don’t breathe anymore until
My lungs stutter asking after you –
asking my brain if you’re okay at that moment – but even better:
my brain sends back down a letter
signed off and wax-stamped, in which my brain cells utter:
“It’s alright, breathe, take in another,
She’s alive – she dances –
Like a beautiful feather!”

Back to normal now, back to, back to:

I Iove her at length; a length:
like the width of the world, or the approximate distance from
From the hot-blooded South –
to the Nether!
I love her – but to another,
I bet I seem insane; then again, since when do rich stomachs feel those that suffer –
that eat themselves
Because fois gras fucking isn’t on offer?

What does anyone but me know of loving – without measure?
My endeavor is long!
Scars crawl into my skin and slither
Snake-paths into my flesh, and whether –
I carry the map of my battleground on my chest,
or on the walls – of my heart – drawn blood pictograms
and tissue fissure; I don’t forget:
My endeavor is long, sir,
But my end is treasure!

I’ll give you my two-cents – I swear,
it makes sense that she’s – a perfectionist,
because the tide may leave the shore and abandon its home –
but it always comes back to where its roots were sown.
It makes sense –
that she’s a perfectionist – because she – like the tide –
probably just misses her own kind.

.

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Strawberry and Mint

Mr. K was a lovely man – and gay
Soon my love returns from holiday
We’ll spend our time together – alone
And walk about – on Saturday

A suicide note on his lowly bed
Says: “I have chosen Death instead”
I took it home and showed my love
We promised we’d never say what he had said

Now Mr. K’s heart was fire and coals
But life’s too hard for gentle souls
They’ll deny it but they killed him, yes
Turned his white angels to wicked trolls

I love her now and she has known
Since turned my lips from lime & stone
To strawberry jam and minty zest
Told her I loved her to the bone

Everyone says our love is wrong
Like Mr. K’s thin red ruffled thong
My love told me: “Be careful too!”
I said I had been all along

Now Mr. K’s chances didn’t long stay
He bet his life just yesterday
My love wonders: should we bet like him too?
That love like this don’t fly away?

I don’t know what to say to her
Don’t want us ending like Mr. K
Guess only the man himself would know
So, Mr. K, what do you say?