Citrus

It's long.

X. Enlightenment
I am not going to find what I’m looking for.
Not because it isn’t out there (it is-)
Not because someone else got to it first (no, never-)
Just because I suck at looking.

IX. Plead The First
You can tell from the scars on my arms and the bruises on my lips and the cracks in my back and the blisters on my fingertips-

God damn!

You can tell from the red of my skin and the lines in my palms and the flowers in my hair-

There’s no hiding it, honey.

You can tell, you can tell, you know you can tell-

and you won’t say a f*****g word.

VIII. Head Bangers
I hate you.
I really, really hate you.

Then why don’t you look away, immerse yourself in blinding synapses of radio-active light, why don’t you try, for once?
I’m not going to ask you why,
I already know why
(same god damn reason I hate you, but it doesn’t make a bit of difference)

Let’s stay here-

Yes, let’s.
Let’s forget about whatever’s outside these four walls, two doors, trapdoor, floor, transparent ceiling.
You know,
I would that I could (that the gods could see us, if there were any)
Let’s forget the mutual enmity and move forward in our sin-free evening of flesh-lust, let’s hyphenate I-love-you, just because we freaking can, and strip it of any meaning that managed to cling to something so intangible-

God-
I think I love you.

VII. Closing Act
Excuse my sudden departure, please, but I’ve got rather better things to do, rather more important, somewhere between
inducing vomiting until my throat bleeds
and
writing some bad emotive poetry.

It’s not going to get any better (this maelstrom)
It’s not going to get any prettier.

(I’m not going to get any prettier. Stop waiting.)

Excuse my sudden departure, please, but I’ve always been allergic to sincerity, and I- can’t-

breathe-

VI. Red Carpet M**********r
We stripped the world naked, (honest to blog – haven’t you seen the pictures?) bit her lips ‘til they turned blue-
Don’t call me beautiful, m**********r, we may be vagrants and w****s, but we’re still the reason your f*****g carpet is red.

V. Fix It
You’d cry on poet’s shoulders, and they’d
rewrite your history, your misery, so
by the time you walked away, you’d be dripping gasoline.

You’re making it worse, you know.

(oh, poet) You’d write them better than they ever thought to, you know, you’d write them hotter than a car crash and crying out of metal frames, you’d write them better than they ever felt-

Let me take a picture.

Long live these atomic hearts, write on the bullets the poets came to love,
Long live these car-crash lungs, fly on the backs of the moving-picture birds,
(You’d write them better than they were ever meant to-)

I promise, I won’t.

IV. Epic
This is a revelation of epic proportions, dawn clawing her way into the sky, only to fall again when twisted moon gets whimsical, pushes her.

This is archetypal, in its own way, in some place, the place where we go to war behind little girls with bubble-wands,

marshmallow revolution.

Happiness has a face, you see. Happiness plays the cello and speaks french, loves strawberries and cream and cries when watching the world. Happiness is good at hide-and-seek (too good). Happiness always glitters, isn’t always happy, is slender, likes flowers.

Happiness is scorching metal, eats calla lilies, is one of those who takes Death’s hand.

III. Locomotor Motion
There is nothing left to say,
train tracks,
my Anna Karenina,
I refuse to learn your lesson.
Dirt and rain stick, my love, but ash and blood you can wash away.
Young green things make love, they grow-
concrete and satin sheets, they f**k, they run-

II. Tick Tick
I’m going to go f*****g crazy
until I finish this god damn poem,
get you out of my skin and out of those clothes-

I. Sour
This would be romantic, if that fence weren’t there.

It would, wouldn’t it,
which in the end is what makes this so wrong,
right?
See, silver glitters in the dust, etched with permanently wilting flowers and flashing, lascivious love and (lack of) modesty.

This is a compromising situation…

You know it is, but you’re still here (aren’t you?)
Such green, such lush, clawing at the sky, it has this way of hypnotizing you, silent sirens, the clock has stopped ticking.

Later.

You’re busy right now (rapacious young Apollyn)

I love your eyes.

But that’s not the only thing you love, is it?
Your hands are shaking (I don’t want to know why), fluttering, humming bird-

Close your eyes, this is PG-17.

As if (I care – as if you care-)
I mean, we are here (hear it?) aren’t we?
We are real,
                  aren’t we?
We are shredding this tapestry, piece by piece by piece by I – love –

this.
(Not you, not anywhere close, but this, moment magnitude stopping the world and jerking baby eyes-to-the-sky, I wasn’t born under the blood moon for no reason-)

Damn.

I know, right? (No – wrong)
This isn’t how it should be, electrode fingertips, scarlet skin,

I like your style.

I like yours, too, through-the-looking-glass, but I’m not going to pretend seeing my face in yours doesn’t make me want to-

We could to this again.

We could.
               (we should)
                                 We will.
         (If for no other reason
           than we don’t know how
           to do anything else)

I still love your eyes.

You make me want to tear them out-
I can’t see the bruises, but I know they’re there, just like the bodies beneath trees in a jungle eons away, too utterly extant for them to be real to us at all.

One more.

Yes, because this is how it shouldn’t be, but it’s good.
Death carries poppies today, and I am sitting up,
waiting.