Thursday, May 25, 2017

CRYPTIC VALENTINE

Look. Mira. I know I made things easy for you.
And then things got hard and you had to disconnect
because that is how you roll.
You want easy.
You need easy.
You crave easy.
You are an average ass American male.
You are basic you are beneath me but my brain
is still tangled up in the bluest truest knots
and this means I dream of you often
and this means when I talk to myself
I'm talking to God
I'm talking to you
and I'm ready to put a gun in my mouth
just to shut myself up.
Oh this won't happen.
I'm the suicide tease.
Crying wolf since approximately 1999.
I'll never be as good as Acker.
I'll never be as good as Stein.
Pero. I endeavor.
I'm muddy and bloody with starriest try.
Here's toasting the mud in your eye, kid.
You'll never see me the way I need to be seen.
"When you're fucking me it's just mouth, tits, pussy."
I'm paraphrasing something I told you when we began.
"Well what else is there?" (you asked.)
Nada.
There is nothing else.
Mouth.
Tits.
Pussy.
The easy call.
The easy haul.
All of heaven condensed to one willing female body.
What we had is more complicated and ugly
and beautiful and ridiculous and sacred
than any Valentine could comprehend.
Why you.
Why me.
Why us.
Because yes.
Because willing.
Because one more tequila
and I'll go there.
Wherever you are.
Down.
Down.
Venus in Aquarius town.
Yours. Mine.
Our ace in the hole.
The whole deck smirks its stack.
I'm the fool. I'm the joker.
But let's pretend for the length
of a classic rock song
that I am the queen
and you know that bitch
means business.
Which queen.
Any queen except the queen of hearts.
That joke has been done
to death.

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