Post by Juan Castrocafe on Aug 14, 2007 2:11:49 GMT -6
Watch the whether change,
but whisper my name in a hot breathe
over my shoulder before you bit and draw blood,
and drink me down your throat in a way
ecstacy lacks design.
Three shakes of salt over the uncut side for luck,
and I watch the sunlight dance off the truck
while I stand naked in the yard,
trying to water the daffodils in the rain
because they were asking for it
and we noted how the weather changed.
Somewhere, I remember her, she was beautiful,
but they broke her while she was breaking herself,
I guess she got too far broke in, but I held her hand
as that last breath left her mouth, the sound
I will remember,
I wanted to happen again, I waited for it
and I watched the whether fade to a lighter shade of pale,
they cleaned it up, but that is how the grown-ups do,
either they are touching them or they are touching you
but she was beautiful, she used to tossle my hair
and to be true, I loved her breasts
and the rain set in.
What is love to a beaten face, sometimes silence
is the sweetest absinthe going into the marrow
leaving the acrid taste of metal and blood lingering
in your mouth like you were some hungry leech,
drinking in life, one drop at a time,
even if it is your own, lest you loose too much to the floor.
She was beautiful, I watched her dance naked before me,
when she was so high, she was so tall, and all of them
naked would embrace, their eyes looked like they were disengaged
disemboweled, but not disengorged,
either they are touching them, or they are touching you
and really, being quiet does not make it go away
They walked too far inside the broke eyes of their stonedness,
and so they knew they had to bleed to cut out the emptiness,
and they are destroying themselves, the best they can do is destroy you
but that is how love is given a word,
don't ask me what I think of you, I might not give the answer you want me to
a man slaps a woman and she falls to the floor,
you ask why, but really there's nothing more
than moving here or walking out the door,
leaving the key on the dresser, the slacks on the chair
sometime after the needing, then expresses the need
and somehow it is survival that what touches one on the inside
has the ability to be released onto another
and it is like that, that is the way it is,
drink down your gin and shut the fuck up.
Not everyone remembers the child, not everyone got to be children,
but the ones with the words victim on their lips are usually
the bleeding heart that rationalizes a reason based up what they know,
I know it is a lie, because the one they are living is a totally different mess,
and in a crowded room of people, for them, there is no one there,
no bridge to reach..only a sight to see..
and what can be done to stop them touching them,
and them touching me....
but the inner child remembers....
possibly dreams
in the most complicated moments, in the wildly webbed schemes
in that moment that hits, major strikes fifty two times seventy
and on the seventy eighth, the grip untightened,
if for just a moment to remember the pleasure, that warms like care
and some strange woman smiles and tossles your hair.
the sometimes there might be a hallejah
and hope finds a crack in the machinery
and takes root there...
and only in the silence can you hear it,
sometimes naked and spent with an arm across
sometimes sobering from the broken arrow
in that moment, straight enough
to remember yourself, even this,
and the revelation of being alive
and being able to change.
but whisper my name in a hot breathe
over my shoulder before you bit and draw blood,
and drink me down your throat in a way
ecstacy lacks design.
Three shakes of salt over the uncut side for luck,
and I watch the sunlight dance off the truck
while I stand naked in the yard,
trying to water the daffodils in the rain
because they were asking for it
and we noted how the weather changed.
Somewhere, I remember her, she was beautiful,
but they broke her while she was breaking herself,
I guess she got too far broke in, but I held her hand
as that last breath left her mouth, the sound
I will remember,
I wanted to happen again, I waited for it
and I watched the whether fade to a lighter shade of pale,
they cleaned it up, but that is how the grown-ups do,
either they are touching them or they are touching you
but she was beautiful, she used to tossle my hair
and to be true, I loved her breasts
and the rain set in.
What is love to a beaten face, sometimes silence
is the sweetest absinthe going into the marrow
leaving the acrid taste of metal and blood lingering
in your mouth like you were some hungry leech,
drinking in life, one drop at a time,
even if it is your own, lest you loose too much to the floor.
She was beautiful, I watched her dance naked before me,
when she was so high, she was so tall, and all of them
naked would embrace, their eyes looked like they were disengaged
disemboweled, but not disengorged,
either they are touching them, or they are touching you
and really, being quiet does not make it go away
They walked too far inside the broke eyes of their stonedness,
and so they knew they had to bleed to cut out the emptiness,
and they are destroying themselves, the best they can do is destroy you
but that is how love is given a word,
don't ask me what I think of you, I might not give the answer you want me to
a man slaps a woman and she falls to the floor,
you ask why, but really there's nothing more
than moving here or walking out the door,
leaving the key on the dresser, the slacks on the chair
sometime after the needing, then expresses the need
and somehow it is survival that what touches one on the inside
has the ability to be released onto another
and it is like that, that is the way it is,
drink down your gin and shut the fuck up.
Not everyone remembers the child, not everyone got to be children,
but the ones with the words victim on their lips are usually
the bleeding heart that rationalizes a reason based up what they know,
I know it is a lie, because the one they are living is a totally different mess,
and in a crowded room of people, for them, there is no one there,
no bridge to reach..only a sight to see..
and what can be done to stop them touching them,
and them touching me....
but the inner child remembers....
possibly dreams
in the most complicated moments, in the wildly webbed schemes
in that moment that hits, major strikes fifty two times seventy
and on the seventy eighth, the grip untightened,
if for just a moment to remember the pleasure, that warms like care
and some strange woman smiles and tossles your hair.
the sometimes there might be a hallejah
and hope finds a crack in the machinery
and takes root there...
and only in the silence can you hear it,
sometimes naked and spent with an arm across
sometimes sobering from the broken arrow
in that moment, straight enough
to remember yourself, even this,
and the revelation of being alive
and being able to change.
