Thursday, December 22, 2016

Seven. Thirty. Two.

i waken into darkness
like the shadow line on the shoulder
of a young blond girl
tanned
a single page
and the pounding heart
thump,
thump
let me up
i cannot justly  
hold on here
anymore
i am mean,
a terrible sorrow
of nothing
a hiding place of distant radios
through thin walls
in the mindfulness
of experience
gained from favorites
alone
adrift
while what i do
rests,
undone
undone again
with a sigh
happy birthday
motherfucker
like 
a casual fuck
with a stranger
pointless
celebratory
a species
approaching
sweeping 
extinction
of the mind
the mind rests
but for the subtle
electric tick
of a small thing begging to
come alive
and twitching to be larger
than life
like the morning
coffee
fixes 
the sadness
an unending balm
to soothe from the world
small
feeling
to distract
from terror
like slapping your leg
to soothe a bee sting to
the shoulder;
fuck this,
she came
to see me
so i'm out....
a lucky boy
and she in this
bold yellow dress
holding a tray of 
tapas at a party
she is wet and
looking at 
the man in
the corner
she is my artistic drive
sick of the boring
slumber
of daily distractions
succumbing to work
again
but there is a wild world out there
and i want to
taste
and feel
and fuck!
i want to wake up 
from this slumber
good
morning
good
morning
sleepy head
a birthday present
because you inspire
wake up!
remember
it's tuesday morning
a time for skin to
rise to meet me
it's tuesday morning
and for fuck's sake
i am still here...
.
..
it's
7:32
and you are a pile
of ragged clothes
strewn on occupation
stripped and tangled
in the cotton
in the infuriating
golden sunlight
you are lucid
and i am gripping
reality
with a (spoon) a firm
hand
you could feel
that
it's true
and
it's 7:32
lover,
where
are
you?