SHOTS
SHOTS
Six shots,
The sky is an infinite dark
from my wine glass and your eyes
are abandoned homes of ailing
soldiers lonely in
dilapidated buildings and solar
systems. He told me that
asphodels wreath on my lips like a
war cry, saving my mouth
from the decaying Gods.
I told him to shut up,
shut up or I would shatter
his name with my fingertips
because God is a shard of
sunlight, and I'm
not an atheist on our purple date.
Five shots,
I'm singing an aubade to
parting French lovers.
He must be Wordsworth and
I am his forlorn lover,
the solitary reaper
asking for a tequila and hemlock
cocktail. He tells me to shut up,
shut up or he would
barge into my
house with ferrous blood and
kill me with a fork. Damn.
"Murder is real",
I heard our master say,
and we have
committed it on esplanades and
colonies for them, for our
almost lovers at poison-per-head
bars.
Four shots,
Mother asked me to change my
rotten clothes for there were marks
of prehistoric pain. I cried.
She asked me not to.
"pain is fertile but
dies on short notice."
It does not kill,
it aches inside our ribcage for two
hours and slightly becomes
ancient. I knew the
serpent's eyes selling kisses in casks
of dahlia seeds. I knew.
Three shots, I am full,
I recited a poem sitting bare-legged
on the kitchen table
about battles I fought
in Europe back on June the
third. You told me that I was wrong
and my battle was only a
a rant at emergency
stations near the fifth avenue.
I wailed that night
into blue notebooks, read classic
poetry in the bath and
scratched radio edits
on my face.
I'm not me
and my laughter is now a
technicolor carousel on a gravelly land,
I was not wrong.
ONLY YOU WERE.
Two shots,
I am falling out of love.
You told me about
the coffeehouses with smog-tinted
windowpanes, traffics that counted
less men on asphalt roads. I told you
there's a tragedy wrinkled on my
father's temple, and apparantly "trafficking"
is only related to humans.
You laughed. We laughed naked on
the cold bathroom floor,
the shower still
running.
One shot, last one please,
My flesh is Marlboro smoke hinting
phone booth sex.
You are terrible, terrible.
AND YOU ONLY WANT TO
FUCK ME, LEAVE ME ON
PROMENADES.