so in the back of your graveyard mind,
you were thinking:
"hey now, we're all heroes
in false-tailored suits, clipped at the ankles.
meaningful, still. well-armed
with philosopher's machinery."

or maybe you weren't thinking that at all,
maybe you were jacking off with mosquitoes,
cradling the soot of stale cigarettes
between your toes
and cooing to the great prolific hymn
of an insomniac drunkard.

i cannot see you waxing careless.
everything is evident of your intricate precise.
the grains in your hardwood must all have names
or graphic implication.

weaknesses aside, in the indulgent's
crystal recongition i have lost
the string of maintenence on the widdled palm
of a sunken endeavor.
the boys all go home.
you know the boys all leave of course.

you are the last of the unkempt standing.

too smart, that's what i say.
that's what i was thinking when you weren't.
for your own good, the brittle air should sting you,
dumb you down. you should always come back in the morning
and ask me to move over, and when i'm asleep,
you should do it yourself, and i will wake to you,
because that's what i was meant for,
waking up to the delicate whimsy
of your hesitant needs; the needs you think
secondary to that of a man, and yet resistance
clings like an epileptic foot--not enough.

every rational thought is someone else's dementia.
mine are lost in negative space and blurred vision.
there is no room for me behind the wide plains
of your open arms; you are full of mechanisms and pandemonium.
frenzies written down by the pens of dead poets.

and i am unsightly garish to your appointed architecture.
you are looking for art-deco and i might as well by vinyl side.

09/09/2007

Posted on 09/09/2007
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