Tag: spilled ink poetry

Sweetheart, Be A Sweet Heart And Cut The Strings To This Sweet-Heart

This disaster town can hardly hold us,
wild kids ingenuine as our frozen margaritas
and glass brooms. Keep the dust and repercussions,
we’re only looking for a good time. Radio on
repeat so we don’t lose our edge.

Weekend full of #hashtags on Instagram
and postcards reminding me
of how you left us.

Oh Maria, Maria – Won’t You Open Your Heart* And Let Me In? (Editors Note: *Legs)

Mourning in the morning, even by the evening,
smoked in the dusk – I’m the dew that meets the sunrise.
Smell me, taste me, feel me, breathe me.

Inhale – inhale.
Breathe.

Don’t you know? I’m the muse that gives the dawn
its minty kick. And I’m always there, but better
when you’re alone, talking to yourself
and crazy. Pass me the fifth baby,
before the day settles
and you miss me.

Never mind the never-mind’s
when we have this sleepless town
to dance and be depraved in.
The music calling, hips responding,
three missed calls on your neck
where my lips should be.

My Love Is Not A Pivot Table (aka Baiser Lamourette)

Weigh what men that love me
the way analyst add up pros and cons
on Excel spreadsheets. Fiscal year
ending, lost my notes in budget meetings,

but,

I’ll be damned if it isn’t fun
to put the smallest gestures
against the guillotine
of my affection. Cut the head
and see how far

the river runs.

Being In A Room Full Of Animals Doesn’t Give You The Right To Act Like One

I could have killed a man today. Fantasized my fingers around his neck
for the better part of two hours as he sat beside me, snoring.
Beating his head against the sink until I felt blood againast
my thumbs and the neck stomped resisting the repeated movement.
Lying limp in my hands as wet noodles that I wash and rinse and drown
in the toilet before calling the police.

Here should be a reason that the kill is justified
but I can’t remember what it was.
All that comes to mind is a blind
hot white rage, and a reminder that the reason
is wrong.

I could have killed a man today, and it would have been so easy.
A quiet corner office bathroom, somewhere God might grant me
enough time to bash his face in and not be caught in the act.
That I might suffer the joy of seeing light exiting his pupil,
that his grin might fade and I can spit on his smirk.

And when we were there and he said Hey-
Lets-Go-Upstairs-The-Office-Is-Empty.
How my blood lust peaked, and felt the promise
and excitement to end him coming.

We exit the cab and he says “This way,” and I see his eyes.
Wide, proud, bold, knowing it well. All the things I hated,
but most of all – helpless. Glossy as gray and cloudy skies
that refused to rain. “Why are you like this?” I asked, instead.

And he broke down crying.