Gush

Spring 2009

What a dramatic waste of time.
Waste of words, and guitar chords.
What does it matter anyway?
It doesn't.
Cuz I know what you would say.
I have a hefty bag full of
things I've been carrying around.
I've been adding to the pile,
and hiding it in my big purse.
While you master the art
of being disconnected
and smile into your whiskey.
A professional party boy,
holding hands with a
part time poet
you're my muse and you know it
I'm glad you're facinated,
Glad you're intrigued.
But if only you would move,
instead of just sitting there
staring at me.
I am a pity machine,
you keep oiling up my gears,
and letting me run, run, run.
You lean in to comfort me,
and I gasp in surprise,
at that tiny bit of human I see.
Because however immediate,
It's always fleeting,
and gone before I know it's there.
You take special care,
to remind me of the rules,
the boundaries,
and the things that confuse you.
You mouth says one thing,
but your hands say another,
and I don't know which one to believe.
So you can't really blame it all on me.
You give me these
lovely speeches,
littered with
"I don't know what to say",
and "I'm not ready",
And I sink into the floor,
tracing circles with my red shoes,
fighting off the blues,
and the urge to just kiss you,
to stop your mouth,
from all the garbage you let spew.
We have such intense conversations,
you tell me I make your head hurt,
and you don't like the pain.
But every night,
we end up here again,
In the dark, all alone,
talking on the telephone.
But you never hang up, you always persist,
and when we are done with the seriousness,
we act naughty across a phone line.
I imagine your hand in mine,
as I'm cuming, calling your name.
And then it's over, as quickly as it came.