Thursday, February 12, 2015


punch drunk, love
it is the things you say at first,
earth spins out of hand like a dervish for God
there isn't much of your face but jabber
not much out of your hands but cup marks on the table's surface
these are things you can see with one open eye

punch there's weightlessness beyond measure
punch, infused with hill-song and fruits
it smells of Hawaii and tastes of  rush, resentment
last minute preparations and minors without licence
dodging the last cop for the night, speeding
they blow their horns in night's ugly face
and take back its reeking breath,
the clad iron of a fist against the ribcage
a tear in the skin

drunk, your voice trails into my ear
I still hear, breath- a negation of death
you declare a victory in blur, you will forget
but by the essence of findings, remember
shards of glass splintered by the fall
hiding, like ants between the folds of carpet
I lay and watch, with eyes the size of peaches
explanations tumbling, like excuses
manly tears, vintage

love, you seem like you lack sleep
let me lift you if I can stand on my very feet
take you up slowly, like a building
one base at a time, maybe you will
see I am not made out of stones and iron
on the inside, that I am flesh and bone
I make my self out of matter
insignificant things, like flowers
painted hearts on paper,
bleeding out of paper-cuts

at the end of the night, you whisper
that like wine is the hair- mine
soothing, sharp- pulling
for the first round of your everlasting
punch, drunk, love
more for the silence I keep
the bruises when you meet my eye

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