Perpetual Motion and Static Cling

We’re so grown, we don’t break.
Maintain gorgeous not exactly lies, I’ve got
new men in my thighs, you’ve got
new work in your life.
Not exactly unhappy,
there’s so much good in life,
but cigarette pause and
I miss you, miss you.
I miss you often, not always.
Do you notice
when I don’t speak
to you?
I didn’t think so, but I often think wrong.

Sibilant city skies scream suicide
and I’m laughing,
romantic atrocities spill from her pretty mouth
I want to kiss her till we’ve both died.
Crashing burnt babies,
spray love, lust and perfect cheekbones
all over the damn highway.
I love her,
I love her,
I love her,
I am utterly abandoned, completely unreliable
to anyone else.
Following her to the ends of the earth,
I forget myself,
I am my Self.

If you came back, what would I do
with you, with your sad sense of replacement?
There is more to
even my
life than sex, mister.
If you knew me enough to know that,
would you have known that love trumps typecasting?
Seen differently?

Dancing ladies want someone to love them,
even when the shadow’s wiped from cracking eyelids,
the music’s stopped,
colored hot lights yield to cold dawn slapping tired fishnets.
The more people see of you,
the less human you’re seen.
She loves me under fluorescent grocery bars,
she loves me in broad daylight,
she loves me by starlight and sunset and
when we creep out of town at dawn
her eyes shine brighter than headlights.
She is gorgeous without glitter,
passed out and pale in muted afternoon tones,
I love her.

We are consumables consuming,
why were you so afraid of being eaten alive?
There is no thrill like the thrill of slipping
down her throat.
You gave her your cock,
threw your head back on the trial run.
My heart’s in her teeth.
There is more to (even my) life than sex.