Reaching Out To All Of You Named: Nobody
Come She’s reading my blog, looking to see if I’ll mention her, and how badly I desire her and what I’d like to do if we were together.
If you and I were together, I’d make you breakfast and then eat it all myself while you were still sleeping. That’s the kind of lover I am.
I’m the guy who breaks into your home in the middle of the night. You recognize me, because you gave me your extra house-key the other night. You’re just surprised to catch me climbing in the side window, knife between my teeth, a length of rope strung between my hands.
This is your private place, and I’m inside it now. You invited me in, passively but intimately. I’ve got a chance to make some changes now. I might knock something over. I might spill some liquids into your carpeting.
Watch out for the ground-up glass. It gets between your toes.
This a sticky transmission I’m slamming up against your cerebral reasoning. You can’t think your way out of this one, and your mouth’s too full to talk.
You can giggle through your gag, maybe.
Come on, feel the noise. Come on, click the like button. Come on, and dance with me. Come on, and get naked. Get in the water. Get your heart thumping and stop whining about how bored you are.
We’re right here. This is it. Your invitation just came in the mail.
All you have to do accept it.
When We Find Ourselves, and Together
Come on then, say what you must and leave the other bits behind, your half-statements and those stolen glances shoplifted from attractive shopkeepers.
Let’s kick down some walls and kiss until our mouths are full of pudding. Rich, thick stuff. Almost
hard difficult to swallow, but eventually we finish off a whole bowl or two.
Here is a house and you and I might share together. You come home late, and I’m waiting for you, with food cooked, and a warm spot in my heart reserved just for you.
Here’s a story that could be about us: they were so fucking cool all the time, nobody even knew what to say.
Here’s where we could be buried: in this bed, where we roll around, lost between sheets, flickering across pillows, comfortable and half-asleep and entirely in love, forever and ever in warmth and darkness.
We could, we might, we may yet be.
Back Again, Back Again, Back Again
We’re a twisting mess, this collision of stars, these bodies that are drawn together, like a spasm, a cough, a natural confluence of forces.
You break into my head with your nasty words and coffee on your breath. You knock over all my mental furniture, and you stay for a while. You leave muddy footprints across my carpet.
Outside sunshine is converting itself into rain, like some sort of magical trick meant to illustrate the illusionary qualities of this life. I’m trapped in a web of karma that’s been spun by something far greater and hungrier than you and I will ever know.
We are blood cells, cast off from the body.
We are follicles that have come loose.
We are maybe floating, maybe falling. We are that which is undone, even as the mighty sky above us slowly rips itself to pieces,
Right Here Is Fine
Here’s where we’ll bury the body.
Here’s where we can put its shoes.
Here’s a little box for its personal affects.
Here’s a blanket, to keep it warm.
To keep itself warm.
Deep deep down.
In the dark dark soil.
Now we’ll forget its name.
Now we’ll forget what we did.
Now we’ll move on.
And that’ll just be the place,
Where we buried the body.
And we won’t go there,
I Can’t Tell If I’m Alone In This Room
She smiles, and taps my knee with her fingertips. My pulse accelerates, and my mind starts racing towards conclusions like, gosh this girl is pretty.
She smells like dancefloors and pushing and grinding. She’s got teeth made for biting and tearing and rending. Yeah, you could just fall apart in that mouth of hers. Break down into your component pieces.
This is how the situation will devolve. At first it was on its legs, but now its slumped, slouched, sloping like a sloth towards… something? Maybe something, maybe nothing. Maybe we’re just falling into a dot.
I’m not falling love. I can tell, because I’m getting higher, not lower. Love always brings you down. Love always makes you a supplicant to your own desires.
I’m not like that today. I’m in charge of things, I think. I’m the dominant. I’m the top. Yeah, I’m the top, and I’m spinning. Spinning and spinning until I’m so dizzy I spit up.
Up and up and up. Your love is lifting me… higher and higher. Or maybe that’s just the weed I’m smoking. Maybe you’re not even here, and those phantom hands I feel on my body are just the tendrils of smoke, riding and writhing up and around my ribs and ears.
Baby, You Could Be Her(e)
Be my, be my, be my broken-ass lover.
The best part of me crackled and fried in the sun. Imagine my ego, swelling up like a big blister, only to pop when it reaches it’s critical mass.
Yeah POP GOES THE EGO, and then there’s just the mess.
You want to come clean this up? I can just see you on your knees, scrubbing away at the floor, right? Yeah, that’s what you’d do while you were down there.
This isn’t a subtle, Sunday-drive sort of scenario. This is a guns-are-drawn guts-for-glory kiss-my-ass-and-I’ll-kick-yours kinda thing. This how things happen down dirty old roads. This is where roads end, in fact, and where wildernesses begin.
I’ve always wanted to see where your wild streak starts and stops. I’ll check under your hood if I have to. I’ll peel you right back and investigate your goings ons.