Less Talk

you're not half bad
at your candlewick blossom snuffing -

got your braggart game up loud
in your repetitive silence
beaming at the doting strange phoenixes
darting in between your
bending fingers,

snatching up my flames
in their return to their
static progress on
life skills that are lingering
far too long
in the forging stage.

baby, baby
please -

tell me those aren't
your voices
slithering up the tall
columns of echoes,
wailing out
overzealous,
too pompous
orations.

nevermind -

my mind's pretending
to sleep somewhere marvellous
in this mind-field
of
the littlest
pink orgasms,

trying to act like
i don't suddenly feel
as if
the tomorrow
up next
will be bringing
a different star.

so i just sit here -

pointing my toes at occurrences
that i really wish had've gone down
a whole lot more
differently,

praying that
by some miracle,
tossing a bit of dust
from my careful bag

(paired with the experimental
levitational practices
i keep doing in my free time)

will somehow
make room
for all these
eggshells you won't stop
throwing onto the floor.

too many have found me
playing patty-cake
under that possessed streetlamp
down Hardy,
the one that always seems to flicker
when i walk by -

snatching back its potency
just long enough
to highlight the
unsolicited red apple ritual
happening in my
cheekbones.

i've got a game to catch.

not trying to be the dawdling girl,
throwing all of her hopes
into the air,
willing the destined one
to be something that will
cradle us both.

you gotta be on this
wick snuffing trip
searching for something a little more than
a butt-tossing buddy.

better get a pack of matches
and try to beat me to it,
'cause i'm putting up my fire-red can

and the light's gonna follow me out.