Current Residence: Texas|
Favourite genre of music: rock
the last sunsetYou left your sweater on my sofa.the last sunset by autumn-spirit
I found it this morning and
all these thoughts came back;
the feel of the gray fleece in my hands,
the turning of my stomach
as apologies filled my head;
danced there with the fear
of losing you as a friend.
It's always such a hurricane;
a turbulent wind storm
in the heart when we love.
Sometimes I think I could
do without it but then
you give me this smile
that makes me feel stupid,
silly for even considering
the idea of fading away,
becoming numb just to escape
the inevitable pain
loosely inspired by
bargain novels; classic rejects.
Oh you'd laugh if you were here
but you've gone to the city and
now I bet you're playing somewhere,
your guitar balanced on your knees.
Boy, do you remember the night we met?
That smoky club downtown
had a concert going; loud and crazy.
You were there; strumming
a broken chord, a ballad
that started off slow and
then ended all distorted and wild;
rock and roll, drugs romanticized,
lovers, vanishedHalf light; early morning haze,lovers, vanished by autumn-spirit
we lie in bed, me on the left,
you on the right; the warmer side.
I'm awake and you're not.
You dream about someone
who doesn't know you exist
or if he does, he doesn't give a damn.
I'm listening to your breathing; air
coming in and out of
your Cancerian lungs,
wishing I could cross over
the sunflower state line
that is your fucked-up fantasy and
pull you out of that
clueless daze, boy.
As if you were drowning, I guess
I want to lift your head above
this poison water
and give you mouth to mouth
Yeah, it's an excuse..
you wouldn't even notice.
you're so blind, darling,
by what you want most,
that you don't realize
what you already have
someone who's going
to love you,
no matter what; no matter
how many injuries you get
or illnesses you fake
just to get out of gym class.
I know all your secrets.
But I get it..
We don't all
fit into the stereotypes
that society created for us.
We're different and i
Desert FlowerThick evergreen leaves keep the rainDesert Flower by autumn-spirit
from hitting the roof of your tiny cottage.
Your grandmother left it in your name
before she passed away, becoming
like her favorite animal; a snow
fox keeping watch from the forest.
And now, girl, you leave her paintings up;
watercolor memories on the white-wash wall.
You light the fireplace,
even though you don't have to..
These days there are furnaces,
air conditioning, but
there's something about that
special magic flame
that makes it difficult
to part with; throw away.
"The past is here to stay,"
your granny used to say.
"But tread lightly over it,
don't hold on too tightly
to the sides because it's like
a rope bridge; it can break,
and then you'll drown
in the murky water below..
You'll only have yourself to blame."
And see, for the most part,
you've done well; following
her instructions, baking
honey cakes in the morning,
caring for the horses
in the little stable outside,
and moving forward.
But there's just one thing
about your high school
red lanternsMaple leaves, an autumn scentred lanterns by autumn-spirit
clings to your manila paper skin.
Irresistible luck; tomorrow dies in your veins.
It's all an act; a ruse, cliché monologue.
We play this part in front of others,
trying desperately and sadly
to convince our families and neighbors
that we're just as straight
as the other kids around us;
going to baseball games and having fun,
puffing on cigarettes that
we'd rather throw away, in a ditch;
forget about misogyny, glossy lips.
It isn't fair how society forces
both girls and boys to take on
specific roles just because of
how they look on the outside.
Adults don't care how we really feel..
Underneath these costumes, we're dying.
"Boys shouldn't wear makeup.
Girls shouldn't be tough.."
Whatever, you see, I think
we were all made different.
So I don't see the point of all this.
I'm not denying anything, dear.
Life is too short.
Why can't they understand?
We trade glances behind our parents' backs.
At the lotus lantern festival,
I see you and I want so badly
these poisoned daysI. Camellathese poisoned days by saltwaterlungs
She arranges flowers at his roadside memorial
and promises never to forget him or the origami
frogs he made out of gum wrappers in home ec
because the newspapers don’t remember frogs.
They remember he was drunk now he’s dead
what a shame let’s move on next headline.
The burning headlights fly past like they’ve
forgotten him and the roses are a runway.
He inhales the burning tobacco and exhales
to draw the melancholia outside of his chest,
but escaped ghosts are crowding the bathroom
and pressing him against the chipped blue tile.
The glowing florescents are peering too deeply
into his coffin body, and he’s afraid they’ll see
his corpse rotting in his wasteland of a temple.
He can’t remember the last time he called home
and didn’t make his mother weep; at least she cares.
She likes to run and run and run her pace
is the only thing that doesn’t ever feel broken.
The pat pat pat of her feet slappin
(as)certainmaybe ivory song,(as)certain by nawkaman
reaching down tusks; beechwood blonde
jangling keys and clipping string
from frayed-edge cavity
maybe just as well
swept syncope, sleeping out an epoch
in the arms of no one
(only wanted you)