monksta

this is despair, at 12, or of:
long walks under dark lights ... white lights?
my heart falters in steps,
the cracks rub my elbows and the asphalt
runs down my cheeks.
I am caked in road construction
and I can't scratch my skin off fast enough.
This strange shape, donned in a bonnet,
3/4 caressed as a fish in water and 1/4
maybe frost biten by ex-lovers
drifts off my chin to the concrete
I find my feet sticking in.

She's so sexy.. back seat legs
pushing up against shoulders, against
leather or polyester, pressing
pressing.. she prints papers.
And him, driving over cobblestone,
pressing feet down, he looks back
and sees her shadow scream.
I fall down in doors. Legs rubbing steps
hard. Cigarette barely hanging from
my lips, the asphalt cracking off
my eyes.

She is shaking the back so hard,
so fast, and it seems too painful.
I giggle at the glass window,
and it shatters. Her hands covered
in red. Another fare leaves.

I stagger up. smoke finding it's way
through the forest of make up
into my lungs. my heart.

She is beating as a cold tongue,
She is beating as a bon fire,
a mallet, a crucifix, a circle of words,
I am smeared into the walls of department
stores, and freckled with brick.

Yet, I don't want to forget.
I sweep my feet out of the way
of couples unafraid to migrate.
They don't even know the size of
these walls, or the hurt held in.

This town, beating after dark,
a quick glance and half a year,
her hips aren't shaking anymore
from struggled adolescence.
I learned all this in class.
In between those lectures and tests,
and little questions you wanted to ask me
when I tried to pay attention,
but couldn't keep my eyes focuses on lies
on cherry lies,
that seeped from your lips as
poison into that glass
I felt her hand on my crotch, and
I couldn't fight it away
when she took me
and told me that words are just
metaphors. That legs are just metaphors.

Suicide squeeze. Snake charmed eyelids.
Music tends to cut your throat right out
and blood curdles before it drops
like rain curdles before it falls
and asphalt cracks off ears and forearms
and I scream, "stop" but the words
come out as sidewalk.

She silenced my veins. That was the other her.
The doctor in white wash jeans. She used to
feed me needles.
Maybe That's just my fantasy of words
stretching my tongue out into a walkway
that is your doorman.

She will purchase her front door key
from that man in black
that remembers her hands, blood red,
staining his chest.
I will not listen in to the tree lines
tell tales of hearts pushed up against
countertops, with heaving,
with the ship sails floundering in the midst
of all this horrid weather.
The sound of the wind sounds just like her
moans, her fall into dementia,
she orgasms in his lap;
a fish out of water.
He leaves the bowl at the door,
with a packet of food nearby.
I faint.

Fascists crowd the chalk outline.
Cloud the raindrops with beggar's hands.
I am turning into the drains,
into the pipes and sewers.
How much of this is fit?
Pipe dreams, or real things, or
I can't even recall the way the smoke
falls out of the cigarette because
my head is dripping parkways and
overpasses and I'm tired of
this traffic.

I need a dead end.
Maybe it wasn't despair, or 12.
I could have been older and a leatherbound
book on the end table
with these charts and graphs
and smut smeared across the fine pages,
signed by some man
who fathomed life as none know it.

Just don't make me a crosswalk.
My head would hurt too much.
She's been up and down my ribs too much.
With charcoal eyes and her simmering words,
sucking, swallowing, taking in
every ounce of freedom.....

This night is over.
The alarm rings. The sun creeps in.
The shadows fall away. The door feels a knock.
But, I am covered in cement,
somehow someway, and
I don't have two sides willing to
take the first swing at cracking...
breaking... the wall down.