Wednesday, June 07, 2006
I woke up bathing in your tears and I’ll sleep slipping into your skin, sliding in the sled of your veins within, drunk on the blood of your Texas gin.
It’s the sad time for you, the cyclic downswing of a pissed off pendulum, the irregular dumb of a righteous drum, it’s self-obsession with a bleeding bum, its timeless time has finally come, and with all the fear of fleeing and flying when I fall and say ‘Fuck!’ my breath stops and it’s frozen in winter, me stuck to ice, hammering at a hole that just won’t grow, feeling the fight of the Finns within and the wherewithal without a doubt we will find ourselves frozen tonight, tightly in the time of dark murky waters, calling our names out our bodies in, which we fill with elixir making love like Leprechauns, filling each other with each other thinking we’ve won lucky charms only craved as children but the solid ice flows backward too, to liquid times when came the find in which we found each other hiding in a cave with liquid smiles on moon-walked miles from everybody’s child.
Your smile concealed culture with lucky charm, your majestic movements concealed electric nerves on a Chris catalyst climactic crash-bound hip high experience, all under circular disco ball, capturing that second of hit hearts and flinging you full-clothed into the line of laser-fire while I sip wine undressed in desperate waters desolate of you.
You carried me through summer on the sweat of your skin, turning pop flies into homeruns and hot suns into saunas and panties into pussy. Such a shimmer to your shine that upon invitation I could only dive into you, too.
I’d been waiting so long for that mile-high Saturday song about travels to treasures and the trip I took just to reach you, through sandstorms and hellfire, father temper and brother brawls, mother tears and Mojo brokens – and you too there was violence and death and hatred and sins of flesh – faith fractured and healed while we were stuck wondering if humanity would ever feel as we did: intensely, alone intensely.
It’s true I suppose there are those who fight the flows like lunatic minorities of one they wear wool in the hot sun but in that fight they feel life more and sometimes – let’s face it – have more fun. So one may wonder whether it’s the majorities who are mental, mundane and majorly morally fucked.
This I wondered and soon found like minds but until you, no like spirits, no like naivetés (or did you mean idealists?) who may make time for each other in mundane mainstreamities yet won’t compromise in truth-speaking, irregardless of grammatical non-syntactical obfuscatory oratories – what I mean is awkwardness because if you’re uncomfortable you are probably learning from each other’s open arms, open eyes ears open words that hurt when the mirror is held to reflect humanity.
Though it can hurt, your truth is my beauty, your idealism is my naiveté, your openness my aspiration, your honesty my salvation.
Alone I tip my wine to thee, feeling full and feeling free. For you I’ll never call wine blood, I’ll kiss the flow of your tears’ flood, I’ll trust your life with mine, and I’ll wait for you patiently, for I’ve learned of the shifts of time.