french

Fatally cold hearted
your shimmering eyes call me a bastard
and you haunt me
even my dreams.
perhaps liquor will make you leave.

She comes to me once a month
in a pleasant state, the most splendid state, the dreaming plain.
She lies as if a French girl,
and to me she brings the most pleasant pain.
I can still see it, my heart racing in the dream, at the sight of her hair
splayed across the ground and her hands pressed against her chest.
my jaw clenching as if not to smile or cry from the sight of her bare.
Only there she is a content company.

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safe box

These things
they’re not just words
as fancy as one can ponder,
nor just rhyming couplets,
these are safeboxes
for what you feel.
These words mean nothing these lines and punctuation mean nothing what your eyes see means nothing
without the way it feels.

Pondering
sufferable
groovy.
A poem is nothing but a safe box for how you feel.

Hide it in a vial

Red lips,
pale face,
the way you smirk makes my heart race.
and is there anywhere else you’d rather be?
than stuck outside decreasingly free.
I’d rather be the one to take a cigarette to the knee.
And I’d rather your hair to be red,
as then my heart would be lying in a sea of bodies
and your presence would bring back that initial dread.

And your soft grinding skin,
grazing up my heart oh honey-
only a man feels in hindsight
and only a woman like you smiles at the thought.

I’d rather be laid in a net of yours.
than be begging for your kisses.

Some Canvas

Pin this on a page
and let your blood paint words.
Tear your head round and round
and let your hair ring out.
WALK with me
TALK with me
and throw me sly and mischievous smiles.
love on a page
and heart sweat on the skin

And let a teenage swell
drag you out to sea,
to see the world, and the wonders it dimly stages.

All for your drunken appreciation

Barbie

I daydream about you.
Once I thought about those eyes
wide and kind
and I thought about how they burned
holes into my mind.

I thought as to why I found interest
itching behind my eyes
is that blonde mop of yours a test?
Oh how I thought when you untied your hair.

And I found it, resting there
in every Beatles song
and now I write it all out
hoping that this odd obsession will then be gone.

Sad sads

And oh what a loss I am at
to not be able to write sad songs for you.
For I cannot complain about your optimistic grin
nor can I recall upon some sort of comfort found in your gaze.
You gave me none of that.

A couplet or two

Fix your bloody hair
and throw you script onto there
throw it far out, allow it to glow
for everyone to see what couldn’t flow.

Let that woman talk off your ear
swat her with pet names, honey, darling, dear
bludgeon her with silence,
let yourself be fixed, beg for her assistance.

And let Natalie green set the scene
let her parched words eat your heart, for they are not obscene-
no her words, are almost always dry
but when animated, it calls us to almost cry.

And let them read this, script of a poem, a draft
let them read the rhymes call that shit couplet daft
let them see you as a cynic without a romantic cause
because when you catch this girl she’ll only bring out your flaws.

a Tideshifter

A dark room has a gorgeous shine to it
subtle in the fear.
And the tune rings out
the one for the girl
who returned my lengthened ballads
with merely six words.
I suppose I was far too wholehearted,
for something felt by one heart.
but this song means far more than those 2000 sentences I conjured.
means far more about the nights and days
my hand wished to spend in yours,
with the ringing voice of this man playing out
and the intentions I swear meant more than for closed doors.

And the tide has shifted
in a colluded way.
a colluded soul
the once you sensed
follows my whole.
and friendship must return to our plain
for those around us
those are not to blame.
But let me be clear
you’re a fragment of a sight
lodged in memories
and I’m not interested in your present gaze.