Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs,
Setting fire to our insides for fun,
Collecting names of the lovers that went wrong,
The lovers that went wrong.
A mantra, for now.
Remember: you are always allowed to be you.
- Not too tall, some French actress, really stacked, but at the same time very slender, with a tiny waist, wearing a very fitted evening dress, really low-cut, and strapless, with those reinforced cups, you remember them…
- No.
- Sure you do, they used to look like they were serving their tits on a tray.
- Don’t make me laugh, please.
- The undercups were really stiff, reinforced with wire on the inside of the fabric. And as casual as you please: would you care for a tit, sir?
The green wound seeps a liquid sticky and tart. The corners of the woman’s eyes boil synthetically into cancerous welts, obscuring her vision. Youth congeals into a laceration that she will pick and scar. Years later she will look at her mottled face in the toilet mirror of the local Supermarket and remember that she was then at her most beautiful, and her most unhappy. For youth is an epoch that must be endured, fresh loveliness is only in the eye of the beholder. And sadness is easily consumed by time. The stab in the rib-cage, the breathlessness of despair, is a feeling felt in the moment. The abstract memory of pain shimmers like a hologram. And thankfully, life insistently distracts the mind.
The girl in the mustard coat is a joy. A muscular dog bounds around her and her hair radiates though the smog. As quick as that, the woman crumples. It is too much that someone so lovely walks the same streets. Although others perhaps have never seen, will never see the girl in the mustard coat, the woman has. For the remainder of the day, the weight of the girl and bouncing dog crushes her. The heaviness of being herself is almost unbearable.
The daily crises accumulate and culminate in an embrace from one who has always loved her. Unearned love sews her up. But before long, her green wound begins to crack and tear once more.
Mum, I miss you so.
A hundred motherfuckers can’t tell me nothin’
Your two headlight eyes illuminate me with their bemusement
(concern, judgement, indifference) empiricism.
One emblazons my ear,
The other my high cheekbone,
And I radiate heat like cheap alcohol blood.
Drip go the last dregs of yeast,
The pop-suck of the cork,
The giddy, swimming moments before retreat.
No eyes, lover, no eyes can see into this heart,
Nor can embraces squeeze the life back into it.
Only the tick-tock time can deaden a feeling never fully felt.
————-
The talkers in the next room talk to fill up dead time.
————-
Try to sink into lumpy slumber
Briefly negate self-sensure.
Some day I will look you in the eye and not be blinded,
Just see jagged lacerations which uncannily resemble regret.
Kisses out of desperation
Bring you more aggravation
And you don’t come close
You don’t come close
……………………………
The only thing you regret
You need more time to forget
And you don’t come close
You don’t come close
