Wednesday, August 10, 2005
The Boatyard (a/k/a Ghost)
THE BOATYARD
(a/k/a Ghost)
I was fucked up before the glass kissed my lips.
In an instant you were HERE.
My eyes drank you.
Anxiety. Electricity. Hope.
Terror. Lust. Regret.
Then . . . nothing.
A false alarm. Just a ghost in my attic.
We've got to stop meeting like this. . .
Inside my memory.
My recurring shadowed dementia
of false realities
now blinded by the sparks
from my own self destructive fuse.
You know, I had to hurt you so you would hate me.
Then I could hate you for hating me.
It didn't really take.
Turn on the reggae - watch me pulse.
I search for lost words to toast the sun
as it sets in its own beleaguered eloquence.. .
My lover. My killer.
How many has it been since then?
Lost words or lost sunsets?
The air is thick –
like trying to breathe through a blanket
. . . and its hard to chew.
The idle sailboats still somehow sway.
I stare up the skirt of the tan woman across from me,
searching for
grace.
A tern slurs by like its being pulled
on a bent string.
No shadows now.
The colors fade.
The sun descends.
It is gone.
Like you.
