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Like Icicles
by Betania TeschMy bestest best friend J. P. Klotz and I wrote some poetry of alternating lines together. It's sort of a game. My lines are normal; hers are italics.
You appear as a stranger of anachronistic measures
blackly swallowing memory into the oblivion of your aspect
And all of this still hanging over our heads
like icicles: the sucked-sharp ends of candy canes
pulling on the fetters of unknown options
and dancing to your chained freedom song
All of your practiced chin-touching.
Oh I've never heard of that. What a reaction you've had.
Since tomorrow was always your plaything
and androgyny was your silent choice.
Things can be rearranged like furniture. Should be.
Your mirrors always point toward the door
when you repeat your exit
until it's flawless.
Analogies combine until they become real
and eventually we will tire of the similie unless
it becomes a solid metaphor for nothing
because the lack thereof was always our agreement.
Either way I will end up
with bruises on my palms.
I take abuse with love--a grain of salt--
but we seem to switch roles between sweet and toxic.
Yeah you can plate anything with bronze/gold/a smile
but that just makes it heavier, darling.
We strive for out empty spaces to remain
and keep the self-proclaimed joy of misery.
We carry this thing like a tune
Yeah, call it Avant Garde
Just don't say I didn't warn you.
Don't pretend you don't want it just as much.
'Cause if you do, I may believe you.02/02/2002 Posted on 02/02/2002
Copyright © 2024 Betania Tesch
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