Bossy Behavior

Month: September, 2013

smother the one you love

I lay my love on the string of kite

I admire the thing

as it glides stories high

but detest the burden carrying it

 

saw you in my dream again

it was as much you as a watered down

pigment of your skin

I dare slit a pallet to paint you

to make the horrors real

 

too dense to be sunshine

instead

I’d love to be your dark cloud

anchored to your finger with twine

 

smother the one you love- a slogan I recite

lay only with me

having doubts snuffed into washed out color

a jungle cat full of kill

no desire to hunt

only to smother

 

one last thing

hold me tight like a found doll you lost

that had been flattened in the road

many times

I lost my button eyes but now

you

can see who I really am

thanks for writing me every day (reminding me)

do you remember our trip to the south

and how much fun we had?

 

yes, and how the dusk dozed,

turning the cotton fields purple

and the cranes flew like

living paper planes

and every star was real

and as bright as the

humble candle flame

 

yeah

and the bluesmen sang to us

I always knew love better when it was damaged

 

these little angry blossoms only open

 

because you proclaim what you’ve done

like you deserve a reward.

it sours the dinner

and it spills my guts through my nostrils.

 

yeah I know, I know, I know

take our time, we should take out time

in those haunted gardens

behind dive bars

with sour drinks in hand

the bruises we made on each other

fading from black to yellow

 

yeah we should definitely take out time

 

letting the doubts shrink

like plastic to a flame

 

didn’t some old Yankee say once

that the beauty of deceit

begs to be exposed to the light of day?

 

I’d keep this little thing secret,

a favorite button, a cat’s eye

in my pocket to rub to remember

 

I only keep whistling the same damn tune

because it’s still stuck in my head, okay?

I was just hoping

someone was still willing to play games-

 

and run blindly in

traffic with me.

everything loses its meaning under the strain of redundancy

 

 

this very fall reckoned

everything loses its meaning under the
strain of redundancy.

 

I know this to be a perfect truth

but I still revel

in the images I keep sacred behind my eyes,

with all my autumns boiled down (a bare bone),
to a single one for me
that was warm crisp and altogether virginal-

my last one, as long as I live

for it is replayed as each monarch rests in my sight

and with each bird arrowed south-

and I tongue things spiced to remember
so I can go down with memory’s ship

willingly with collapsed and stunted lungs

 

tenderly warping it into something it never was
bleeding it dry of auburn reds and gold,
my attempts at keeping myself loved-

young.

but now what do those moments mean?

there have been many falls since that one,
nothing but I love yous on walls-

played back so many many times,

like warped vhs, warbling and clipping
the inherent meaning gone or completely scrambled.