Tuesday, April 08, 2014

5/30 Mass Communication

You and your complicated mouth 
drinking whiskey and shooting up the room.

We've become something and nothing at the same time
absorbed in thought between moments of mutual distractions.

A reenactment 
a pause 
an accidental backtrack 
on the sidewalk concrete growing beneath our feet
a lie in the pulpit.

Your hug 
an uncomfortable chair seeking 
shapes me awkwardly 
I have drowned in your shallow.

A well timed spit 
after a blow-job gone 
premature ejaculation 
you want all the space in the room 
I comply 
show you my retreating back 
my slow migration to somewhere else 
but I think I love you with this ticker-tape heart 
all float and no real direction.

So many things fall from the sky
never to be found again: swallowed whole.
Tragedy never comes in the form we predict
sometimes they take the form of dropped calls 
falling from some other time
like nightmares wanting operator assistance 
for their return.

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