my house has no doorsmy house has no doors so air can pass through it and radio static and prayers and other such involuntary consumed beverages.my house has no doors so memories can blow free of its wrinkles; cracks; crevices; corners.my house has no doors so fits of painful nostalgia cannot ensue.my house has no doors so the past can leave me but my clock has no hands.
smokingTheres something about smoking that is so gratifying. The initial ignition of the end of the stick two and a half inches from your eyes. The mild taste of paper and the first layer of filth that coats your tongue. The instant dizziness that radiates from your mouth to your temples. The exhalation of those slutty grey angels that float up and then fade into the next drag. The quick flick of the stick on the edge of anything. The tiny deposit of ash which is probably the twin of the sister you just tacked to walls of your lungs. The hard sucks when the ember starts to attack the filter. The snuff, like kicking him out of your house the morning. The lingering coldness in your fingers as a result of terrible circulation, complements of complicated chemistry I dont have the gusto to ... The spacing out. There
white ponyWe swipe inspired feet across the gritty dance floorInto a room to find that 'something more'.I sit on the mattress, anxiously waitinganticipatingthe rush.On a battered table, you line up the white pony.SniffSnortDumb smilesPupils alertOh God, I always forget I'm such a lush.That one lightbulb above us shinesTime declines ...Thank you for the linesAnd the heated spoon,I hope to see you naked soon ...Flash:In a sense-deprived reverie, we collapse onto the mattressIn careful defeat.I don't like to look in your eyesbecause I know you cannot see.And hands spring up from the dirty sheets,Shrunken of feeling.And I tell myself I'll never come back.
girlfiendsBlood trickles so gently it goes unnoticed.All these swollen tongues sport such thinly embraced phrasesAnd the obligated chuckles are the glueThat binds the mess together.They're a disarray of stained glassPainted 'beauty' and bordered 'class'.I want to leave,The smells are making me dizzy.One of them, an experienced one, whispered to me once:"Do not ever let them know you're alive."But one day I did and I didn't survive.
bonafideyour forehead looks like a conspiracy theoryyour nose scrunches up like a marshmallow dropped into the bonfirebut your eyes remain bonafideand it makes it easy to confidein your sixpence silly nonsensethat often ends up making zany sense in the future tense.your brows form a line and your face turns limeyour jaw tightens like a felon under the gunand your lips purse like a fat-man's buttonsand its easy to laughat your anxious frustrationensuing in tender surrender.your hands conquer the landyour arms cover the surface like sun on sandyou grab alotand I smile a littlebecause your eyes remain bonafideand its easy to confidein this pining prodding passionthat often ends up surviving when romance goes out of fashion.