We got plastered on the mezzanine. Giving even less shits than before With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene Splitting prescription amphetamine Into servings of six, eight or four, We got plastered on the mezzanine. Supplementing lacking dopamine Pretending we wanted to feel more With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene On the childlike side of something-teen With store rooms of baggage to ignore We got plastered on the mezzanine. Steadily making more of a scene Baiting ourselves to even the score With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene These moments dipped light in sertraline Revisited in flashbacks galore We got plastered on the mezzanine. With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene
A crystalized lowball glass sways; Jigging the rocks around the whiskey. Holding the glass is an aged hand, Belonging to an aged man Just threatening to tell a story. The bar listens with tense ears And choked breaths. "She was my first wife; June, beautiful, bewitching, bodacious; Too much so at times. She wore her hair pinned At the crook of her neck With a single silver barrette. It softened her harsh features Just a little you see. I came home one day To discover her on the floor, Deceased, With a single silver barrette Plunged deep in her eye socket. But nobody knew a damned thing!" The lowball swayed mores And the tavern slouches listened on. "Next there was my second wife, Anna-Marie. She was a pious woman, And her slight figure would pray Before performing any activity And i mean any, before the Lord. She tied the waist of her dress With a bright green ribbon; it was so tiny that waist of hers. Shame I found the ribbon Around that pretty porcelain neck. And for some reason, Everyone thought nothing of it!" The lowball was empty. Once the bartender topped it up The man continued. "Finally there is my beloved Jessie. Far too pretty and young Especially for this old ruffian, But she would ignite the fire To warm any man's soul. Now she's still alive. But that there stiff That got my gun going He's the bastard Snatched her from me. And with God as my witness, She remains my wife, So she belongs to me." And with one long final sip, He left the bar without his gun; High off of gunpowder and whiskey.
The feathered wings smelt the worst, Like plastic had fucked hair and created hatred. The smoke those feathers created Wrapped itself around every breath And burned our tracheas raw. At first, His visit was delightful, But as judgment reigned on our indiscretion The townsfolk yelled witch And bound His wings with the rope They bound their wives with at night. We were entranced by the screams Just as we were oft enraptured in each other’s sex. Gleefully we cheered melting skin, And screwed as the fat charred, Breathing in roasted celestial. The final flames danced at the messengers’ feet As townsmen recovered from climax, And wives licked each other's wounds clean. We satiated all violent and sexual desires, The day we set the Angel on Fire.
Do you still smell the same? Intoxicating and inviting. Being wrapped in your arms, Would leave me drunk off desire, Do you still taste the same? Rich, and melting in my lustful mouth, Like freshly pressed coffee, And sweet fragrant vanilla. Do you still feel the same? Would your touch leave me trembling again? Would my hands still know you? Grip you tight in ecstasy.
Images move animatedly across the tv screen, Sounds are blended into the background noise, The foreground filled with heavy breathing, The satiation of pleasure between two, Summed up by title of ‘Netflix and chill.’ The sequel, a follow up on two series merging, Finally born, gendered by the pink onsie, The gentle curves of tassels and bows, And the growing basket of perfectly painted, Single expression, pose-able dolls. Years of playing courting, marriage, Nuclear house, one ken, one barbie, and baby, Of traditionalism imposed in playtime, destroyed. The babe who once played with dolls, Becomes the doll in the tent playing with her bae. Within a flash, the two are married, Both taking and barrelling their surnames, Living equal in their roles, life, and love, Until the hourglass is empty, And the grieving hold their umbrellas in the rain.
The scissors final snip liberates me of the locks over grown, And creates a new silhouette around my face, One that sat similar to a past one, but as a newer rendition. The colour a combination of fading hues, out grown bleach, and dark roots, The sides shaven short, and the top left long and loose. I felt like a renewed me, a different individual, No longer defined by the frugality of an overgrown home cut, But shaped by the hands of a professional. Living as though a person pampered, showered in shallow luxuries. Looking at my reflection and regaining the power I felt for too long was lost. But the power was not the item lost to me most, No, for I have lost my definition. I am at the whims of the family I hold together, As my equal seems to drown in the life we have found ourselves in, I hold afloat our raft, and provide for the three of us a sanctuary. The safety net is spread wide enough to catch them and their baggage, As my baggage is dragging through the murky waters behind us. Each case holding a different aspect of me, A portion hidden away indefinitely, until time allows me to unpack. My heart cradles a child spawned from a careless woman. A mother who desired a babe, but couldn’t protect the child, Whose selfishness took over her instincts in favour of a demon. The child loves me unconditionally, and I love more in return, Handing over the remaining half of each breath I take, Giving her each second heartbeat, and most every thought. I ferry her across the unwelcoming seas, bearing the waves myself, As she dances blissfully unaware of the storms we pass through. But motherhood is not my definition, only an inherited title, One I clench my hands tightly around to keep, but one I fear also. I am spread thinly across each bag that floats along with us, The literate, the musical, the angry, the calm, the loud, the quiet, Among some of the guises interchangeably worn, but put back, Restrained back into their hides, as I try to establish the singular face to wear, Unknowingly losing any further identity in my search for one. Writing under a name not given, but chosen, picked like cherries, And not wanting liberation from anything other than myself. Realizing maybe this is the meaning of grown, or maybe this is the meaning of trapped.
If love is shown in red, Then why do my eyes burn, Why do they melt, when I see it, Why is LOVE shown as I see anger? As a tormenting pain inside, Contorting, twisting, crippling, Making me hate all that everyone sees as love. Why is love shown as the color that induces death? The color that drew an angel away. The color that drew the last part, Of my first love away? How is love red when red stops? It halts, intrudes with it's imposed rules, Controlling the world as it moves. Why is love red?
In an Ivory gown, I waltz, To meet my maker, Or face my ultimate breaker. In the eyes of all those I trust, I see a conspiring plan, To share, universally, the feelings, In their new related form, That originally came from my heart. I vow to be there, In sickness and in health, And betroth myself to life, Imprisonment by betrayal, Regardless of my feelings, Without notice of my honesty, I marry myself to be hated, Suspected by my spouse, Harmed by my home bird. Betrothed to my Betrayal.
We enter the room. Car running in the center, Fuel tank pierced, Petrol dripping. He sits in the driver’s seat, You sit next to him. I find a match, A small piece of wood And with the first I light the second. Wood, unlit end first Pushed under the car. I get in the backseat. I cry, I'm scared. You look back. You nod. Smoke. No flames. No noise. No end. We enter the room. Car running in the center, Fuel take pierced, Petrol dripping. You take my hand Comforting my cries. I nod. He sits in the driver’s seat. You sit in the passenger’s seat. I light a plank of wood, I place it below the car. I sit in the backseat. I wait and wait. I'm crying and crying. You reach back. You give me your hand. You tell me you're sure, That you'll be there, You'll hold my hand to the end. That you've seen it, The cruelty of the world, That it's enough. We wait. No smoke, no fire. No end. We enter the room. Car running in the center, Fuel tank pierced, Petrol dripping. You hold me close. Lead me to the backseat. I sit, crying and broken. You sit beside me, Warm, comforting. You hold me while the pain Escapes through the silent, Distraught, and shattered sobs. He used the wood, To trail, Line, Trace. The petrol, his instrument, The final piece of art. He lights the end. He walks to the car. He sits in the driver’s seat. You stroke my hair as you watch Flames dancing in smaller circles That stop. Too Early. No continuance. No End. We enter the room. Car running in the center, Fuel tank pierced. Petrol dripping. You tell me it's okay. I listen. He takes my hand. He leads me forward. He knows what comes after. You sit in the driver’s seat. He and I trail the petrol. One straight line. We light the end. He sits in the backseat. I sit next to him. Calm, collected. You say nothing. You mean nothing. You show nothing. He holds me in an embrace. Kisses the top of my head. Tightens his grip around me. I know he loves me. You mean nothing in your silence. I look at you, Silently beg for a word, A murmur, a mumble. I ask for your hand. You move. You open the door. I beg you with my tears. You put your leg out. I crumple into him. You leave the car. His grip holds me. I call out your name. He comforts me. You walk away. He wipes every tear. You pause once. I look up. You walk on. He pulls me closer. You leave the room. The fire spreads, Engulfs - Consumes. You close the door. You regret. The car explodes. The flames dominate. He guides me on. He knows this place. He tells me he missed me. I grip his hand. This is it. The End.
the mystery of the heart something we all wish to understand yet become baffled by mumbling fools, the creation beauty, the cause a servitude of 'could haves' a lifetime of 'would haves' all meet to make a concoction of weak kneed wide eyed butterfly filled idiots all stargazing the bountiful sky.