“I feel like I’m going to die soon.”
“From young age came a paper mache heart,
Made from the finest orchestrated love.
It pumped velvet blood into every delicate vein
And warmed and caressed me like sirens above.
As time progressed, my blood grew callous
From years of guillotine tongues
That then proceeded to pump glass under platelets
Which added fire to these car wrecks called lungs.
The glass found its way through the walls of paper mache
And settled in like sapphires in a vest.
It added to the fragile condition that be
And saw that vocal scissors burst through my concave chest.
As of today, I’ve found no solution
To these outbursts as boisterous as war,
Other than to delve deeper into my childhood gift,
But that only silences, then later nurtures it more.”
The image of Timbre diminished in my rear-view mirror,
And in eight hours was replaced with The Orchards.
Exigency: “Your home is wherever silence is broken with only vowels.”
Cellophane hidden under the skins of chariots,
Morphine clouding and caressing the sky:
This definitely was the scene of some yet-to-be-told tragedy.
The Carpenter Limbs came along with me,
And birthed a frail frame for a soul to grow in.
With Cassius and Othello under another set of scratching whims,
I’m left with my Technicolor children.
I find myself sitting side-by-side a plaid former beauty queen
And a future ravenous Beretta.
Chewing the napalm off my rust-filled cheeks.
My thoughts are being formatted to coincide with the digital reign.
My heels dividing into two separate trains of thought:
One for play, and one for experience.
One for comprehension, and one for malevolence.
In one week’s time, “play” clicks into gear in my gutted antennae,
And that’s the first time I ever met her;
Tarantella.
She batted her eyes like a tanned train in motion.
She shook her hips like a frenetic dazed sea.
She sounded her voice like a chorus of angels.
She let her words pass through her lips like the summer’s soft breeze.
I took her in, asphyxiated with her scent of
Oils bathing in grace, and hot light enchantment.
My paper mache burned into glass, stained with
Her sutured silhouette encased with my loving arms.
She was mine, and I made damn sure that everyone knew it.
Tarantella became a soft serenade, in which I could play to my heart’s content,
To make up for the loss of Othello’s brass and Cassius’ chimes,
But we both know that pacifying the fire’s greedy thirst will only make it crave more in the end.
For the time being, however, we both let young love’s preying eyes get all they could see.
She was mine, and I hers, and we based “love” on nothing but what
Brad Pitt and Carmen Electra told us what it was.
She had the aura of a muse, and caused my gift to manifest into physical form.
It came in clumsily, like a river housing newborn cranes.
But in time, it began to bloom and form something more perfect and fulfilling than a bouquet of tulips.
My fingers became fencers, slashing precisely upon every key.
My wrists burned a sharper tone of red.
My eyes became kaleidoscopes, vowing to never again look back.
And my voice became a bayonet, attacking human languages with
A bouquet in one hand, and an AK-47 in the other.
My ears were now my instruments that I had mastered.
In The Orchards, the neon damsels sing tales of love as they run,
And the cities tower and cling onto themselves.
They call and catch their selves on the trees of the young,
And everyone grow sup way fucking faster that I expect.
I’m the wolf, sitting in treetops, parading around in the night.
I cut with precision at the Corvettes at both sides.
We challenge everything that demands that its love be seen,
And now I sleep peacefully and dream of what wonder I will make be.
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