takeitorlucid - Tumblr blog

takeitorlucid · 3 years

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spelling out fire with a box of matches

groveling about with a worm in your skull and a

scuff on your chin and a stench to your step and boy,

oh, suffocating boy, what am i to do with you?

am i to notch my wingspan,

whittle it down to swamp greens and tang?

adam's apple keeping all the manly whim inside,

pestering about with a humpback full of promise

and an indecency like quicksand and vodka water!

take a deep breath, swallow your lungs back down,

and just tell me what to do! what to sever! what to amputate!

i’ve never been more ready to operate.

one boot on one foot and one toe on the other,

way too long laces and chunky mustard nail beds: swaying to the side of it, tiptoeing, carefully teasing the carpet

with threats of war and sex and a guilty ten minutes of being raw and obscene.

one boot on and one boot glued to the ceiling,

just watching the filth—wondering what it will ever do

if it happens to fall down into the middle of it all,

into the thick of it, into the muck and bare of it,

into the honest of it, what it would become if it,

god forbid, ended up on the other foot.

stop meddling! stop crying! stop asking!

my ears are bleeding, my ears are garbage disposal grinding,

but my ears are not sheep or wolves, they are serrated and charred,

they will slice you heel to heart, just to get some rest:

and exhaustive boy, you have smothered them in gasoline and spit fire all day!

oh, i did not mean that, silly boy,

it was a boiling point, a gyroscopic hurl,

like the tide on the shore, compassionate erosion,

panting hot air into your mouth—not revival but revisiting,

constructive criticism with the bite of desperation.

what am i to do with you? with myself? pigs are flying and i need to do something before the old woman

sings amazing grace and milks a tear and blue hands with jarring red cheeks

and i'm holding one fourth of your weight on my shoulders just wondering

what could i have done with you?

two boots on the welcome mat,

positioned so that only meat can be read,

what a time to be cooking, what a time to be medium rare!

just watching the white skin burn, the fat fighting curdle,

the red of it all giving in to the smoke and turning to gravel

dinner is served, dinner is a metaphor, dinner is welcome.

one hand coveting the side of my nape,

the other fondling what little’s alive in my jeans,

and i think i know what to do with you,

lover boy, i think i know what to do with it all!

a treatment plan but with little permission,

crowding around rust in suspension,

swapping oxygen for the view from the front seat:

what have i done with you, wanderlust boy?

am i to call the operator and ask for forgiveness?

between a dial tone and a gut feeling,

i think there was never a bridge to burn--

we just couldn’t tell the difference between falling and flying.

but now i see, we were always just lying still,

wading in our own fever, drenched in our sweat,

and wondering what to do with ourselves

that hasn’t already been done to us.

#poetry #poet #poetic #tumblrpoet #poem

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