Poetica Spontenaium 04.07.04
A honey crusted moon
Suspended in a soup dish of mercury
Not unlike my kiss upon your upper lip
Toeing the edge of madness
With an antsy delight that sweeps through
like march winds between sky scrapers.
I think, now.
About the yesterwhen.
Do you remember then?
The thing that startled and terrified
Trilled and intoxicated
The base of your spine
When leaning against me in the coffee shop line?
Americano. With lemon.
You said it made you feel like you were legit.
Blushing slightly when you said it.
A shadow over the bruise, the neck I’d bit.
At least in my wannamaybe state of mind.
Doubts cast like pearls before,
well, ya know.
“So it’s like this”, you said.
Looking me straight in the cheek
Because my eyes made you nervous
With their careless desperation.
“It’s not that I don’t…”
And I chose not to hear the rest
Instead sipping on my latte
like a crack baby to a tainted breast.
I asked myself, was I fearsome?
To this man, whose bone marrow I would gnaw at
To know and love and transform
Into some greater incarnation of my wishIwas?
Or was it the wishIwasgoodenoughfor?
Couldn’t tell you then, nor now. Honest.
“It wasn’t like that” I told myself.
In my corrupted dreams and confessions.
It was parkinglot lithe tempos
And cymbal slashing heart beats.
Chrome tipped hot passion
Sweat stained arc welding
Rhythmic rationale with Yeates overtones
Liquid glass over clenched fists.
It was love at it’s gruesome glory.
And it was mine.
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