this is it.
There is a difference
and a lack of passion.
Strangled in a barrage of such good intention
behind the tired sleeves of your messy hooks.
All those husks scraped bald from tired eyes—
Left behind uninvited despite the trauma.
Only bent for some tip-tap-drippin’ faucets
hugging it out on cobbled walls—uncontrolled.
It’s never euphoric—muscle memory’s just…
Knotted—curdled and cramping in spastic acid.
Quit flashing back forward to never again—to pills.
Your loaded without a gun and still spinning—daily.
Maybe you don’t need dressing… this is enough…
Try to settle and rest easy…
…away from your personal infestation.
I want those minor tattoos
always jeans always jeans
trimming hair Samson style
wicked with those knuckles
I swear I’ll keep my face dry
I swear it
yes yes yes yes yes
I’m just happy is all
chopin makes me feel like i have an orgasm
because he is so beautiful
because he uses his left hand
he is left handed
i am left handed
his hands dance across the black and white keys
he was my friend
he was my lover
we had a kid but he didn’t know he had a kid
yes he didn’t know that his kid turned out to be…
strawberry heads spread across beds,
drunk little girls and their cigarette hurls.
chopin my lover, chopin my brother
(don’t put that, that’s really gross)
chopin my mother, chopin my hover.
chopin the man.