To the only person that ever made poetry wander out of me-
Like a barbed wire vine twisting, tearing little pieces of skin:
marking me- scarring me, growing sideways and through me.
The vowels make my lips into familiar shapes: consonants are too flat,
so I write arrangements of round letters; sometimes y.
It’s nearly spring, but I’m still cold, and the birds are South, with me,
And you’ve got nothing but concrete and love with wheels and lights in the dark.
How do her lips taste on yours? Like peach preserves or fire or burnt toast
“Hangin’ on to someone else, he tells you that peace sells
And you see him like all’s well, I ain’t jealous.”
Smoke fills my lungs and bass thumps in back and I lose myself in paper mache thoughts of you:
colorful and sticky.
All good is gone.
I am statues and stone and whores in red lipstick,
trying to forget.
I haven’t written poetry in the longest time. It felt nice to get at it again. I’ve missed it. 🙂