Crash, Burn, and BLOOM.

 

 

 

        

 

 

 

 

                                                                                 Crash, Burn,

                                                                       and BLOOM.

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

trevor walroth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“when your world falls apart,

remember that others

are still trying to

piece theirs

together.”

- TW

 

 

table of contents.

 

 

 

 

reading the writer. ……………………………………………………………………………………………...4

one for the old boy. ……………………………………………………………………………………………..5

listening to 'art'. ………………………………………………………………………………………………….8

love, let me in. …………………………………………………………………………………………………..10

some assembly required. …………………………………………………………………………………..11

software update. …………………………………………………………………………………………..…..12

the 'new' old haunt. …………………………………………………………………………………………..13

empty envelopes. ……………………………………………………………………………………………...16

we do, until we don’t. ………………………………………………………………………………………..17

nothing more. …………………………………………………………………………………………………...19

alone together. ………………………………………………………………………………………………….20

you without you. ……………………………………………………………………………………………….21

the box. …………………………………………………………………………………………………………….24

 

 

 

 

 

 

…25…

interlude.

 

 

 

 

 

 

26…………………………………………………………………………………………... gambling with Life.

27……………………………………………………………...………………………………… beating the con.

28………………………………………………………………………………………… surviving in the war.

29……………………………………………………………………………………………………………. hunger.

30…………………………………………………………………………………………………………. to-do list.

32………………………………………………………………………………………………. fashion faux pas.

33…………………………………………………………………………………………. a nugget of wisdom.

34…………………………………………………………………………………………………. 'tis the season.

36…………………………………………………………………………………………... as the world burns.

39…………………………………………………………………………………………….. structures of love.

41…………………………………………………………………………………………….. maybe tomorrow.

42………………………………………………………………………………………………………. sole mates.

43…………………………………………………………………………………………………….... not tonight.

45…………………………………………………………………………………………………………… last call.

 

reading the writer.

 

 

I don’t know

the exact moment when

a 'writer'

sheds the skin of someone

who 'writes',

 

 

but as I read

this,

I can confirm

that:

 

I’m a reader

 

who has read

 

what the writer

 

has written,

 

 

and as you read

that,

you’ve confirmed

this

as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

one for the old boy.

 

 

"why don't you write about happiness?"

 

sometimes I write of love,

and when I do,

those moments are cherished.

but if I linger too long,

that's when the devil's grin emerges

along the palest side of the moon

and really gives my bones a shake.

 

you have to give your body

what it needs

to survive.

 

writing with the perfect balance of

hurt and hunger

will move the blood fast enough

around your heart

that it keeps the bubble in the IV

right on the cusp

of going south.

 

that's when

you truly start to live.

 

you can then embrace the fact

that the sanest thing

one can do

is to continuously repeat

what you've convinced yourself

you do best,

to the point of an obsession

with wanting nothing less

and expecting nothing more.

 

when you know

what will come of it,

there's no internal letdown.

 

 

 

 

 

"you know, you sound a lot like Bukowski."

 

I remind this person that

others have found the bar

where the drink welcomed them in

with eyes so full of lust

that they actually believed

they were the 'chosen one'

strong enough to

leave the cavalry behind

and win the war

all on their own.

 

some men have had luscious legs

wrapped around their necks

for so long

that when they were on

the brink of suffocation,

their only hope was for the love

that held them so tight

to eventually loosen its grip

and finally leave.

 

some have even stepped

so far beyond the other side

that the door closed behind them

and left the dark

to gnaw at their toes.

when they begged

for the end to come,

death wouldn't give them

the satisfaction;

 

all they could do

was hold onto

the word

to keep them alive.

 

the problem is

that most people are too scared

to write it down.

 

I'm too scared

not to.

 

 

"well, I still think you're ripping off Bukowski."

 

"and I think

you're trying to steal business

from the poor two-dollar whores

flapping their tail feathers

up and down Bridge Street

on a slow Tuesday night

with all that makeup you wear."

 

"YOU ASSHOLE!"

 

I laugh.

 

I think the old boy

would have liked that one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

listening to 'art'.

 

 

"I can’t wait to hear him read again."

she said,

"he’s like an artist

in the way he paints pictures

with his words."

 

if I wanted to see some art,

I would look at a Hustler magazine

upside down,

I thought to myself.

 

"the last time I saw him,

he painted something so beautiful,

it left me speechless."

she said this, closing her eyes.

"this one tonight

is supposed to be even better."

 

trying to find somewhere to sit,

I said,

"hopefully he wrote something

so unbelievably moving

that it will tear out my heart

and shove it down my throat

and then drag dull nails

across my soul

before throwing me naked

into a grease fire."

 

as we moved down a crowded aisle,

I continued,

"maybe something that will

put my skull in a vice,

turn the crank,

and then pluck out my eyes

and feed them to the birds

before punching me in the gut

and holding my head under water."

 

"is he good enough to do that?"

 

 

 

"well, I don’t think he can paint something like that;

he’s not that kind of writer," she said,

"but give him a chance.

I think you’ll truly be amazed."

 

"I always give someone a chance.

hell, I still keep giving myself one.

I tell you what.

if he can wake the sleeping beauty

curled up deep inside me,

I’ll be the first one to shake his hand,"

I said, sitting down.

 

the artist came out

with his canvas

and colourful buckets

filled with words—

 

he began to speak

and paint,

and paint…

 

…and paint—

 

either his brush went dry

or he ran out of things to say

because he finally stopped,

 

and everyone applauded

with tears in their eyes

as they left their chairs

to congratulate him

on another wonderful piece.

 

I got up

and didn’t shake his hand.

and I moved towards the exit

to find a convenience store

where I could buy

some 'art'.

 

 

 

 

 

 

love, let me in.

 

 

let love rest,

like mother’s homemade apple pie

cooling on top of a windowsill

as wolves in the night

wait to attack.

 

let love rise,

like the workers at dawn,

as they clock into factories

with yesterday’s blood

still on their hands.

 

let love spin,

like a globe of the world

in endless rotation,

for the youth to explore

with a voyage

still clear in their eyes.

 

let love free,

like souls behind bars

serving a lifetime sentence

for being wrongly convicted.

 

let love speak,

like words on a tongue

behind the teeth of a mouth

that holds 'the great mystery'.

 

let love lean into me

as I lean into it

and say,

 

"love, let me in."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

some assembly required.

 

 

the nearly impossible task

of rebuilding my heart

from scratch

was given to her,

unbeknownst.

 

a project that came with

no instruction manual

and a bag only half full

of the needed parts

to even give her

a fighting chance.

 

still without complaint,

she worked tirelessly

through the nights

with scavenged pieces

and sore hands,

under a dim glow.

 

until she constructed

the shape of something

that would work well enough

to start the process of

bringing me back

to life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

software update.

 

 

six months ago,

we removed

the alcohol feature

from the operating system

in an effort to eliminate

the countless errors

found in

the previous release.

 

we also began debugging

the physical

and mental glitches

we noticed

to enhance performance

and create a more

enjoyable experience.

 

version 2.0

is available now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the 'new' old haunt.

 

 

I walked through the doors

of the old haunt

for the first time in a while.

 

the place looks different

than I remember.

 

don't get me wrong.

the washroom sign

still hangs crooked,

with one bulb flickering

to guide the staggering cattle.

 

Rick is slouched over

at the end of the bar,

already halfway there,

just as I left him.

 

there's that undeniable stench

of tequila and despair

still holding the patrons over a cliff

by their necks.

 

a few more stains are drawn wildly

by the drool of wicked tongues

along the old green carpet,

 

but the girl has a bit of a glow

about her now.

 

 

the afternoon sun fights its way

through the dirty windows

and dances in hand

with the steam of the dishwasher.

 

a hum from the fridge

rattles the coasters along the bar top,

almost to the beat

of the muffled conversations.

 

 

 

I notice the grain etched in the bar,

like it was an oil painting

created by an artist

whose intentions

were for someone to see it

more softly than the rest.

 

I slide up

and take a seat atop my perch,

the one where the days

turned to nights

and then to days

before.

 

"hey, big fella,

I haven't seen you in forever!"

 

there stands the gatekeeper

of my dreams,

my nightmares,

and me.

 

I look up at Joyce

as she spins a pint glass in her hand.

"forever is endless, my friend.

I just went for lunch

and forgot to come back."

 

"that was one hell of a break then.

where'd you go?

what have you been up to?"

she asks

with hints of genuine interest.

 

I push my hair back.

"well, Joyce,

the jaws of the beast

had a pretty good hold on me for a while.

luckily,

I didn't have enough meat on my bones

for him to stick around."

 

 

 

 

     

"…well, I'm glad you're back.

it wasn't the same without you."

as she looks past me,

like she's trying to remember

something.

 

"I'm sure another pale skeleton

sniffed out the vacancy."

 

"well yeah… but it wasn't you,"

she confesses.

 

"it never was, Joyce."

 

a soft sigh left her slightly older lips.

 

"I'm just glad you're here.

what will it be?

the usual?"

as she angles a glass under the beer tab.

 

"not this time, Joyce.

give me the one

that tastes like the devil's juice

but without

the soul burning gasoline."

 

"I want to stand by the fire these days,

not in it."

 

after a bit too long of a beat,

Joyce cracks the tab of a Heineken 0.0

and says,

"I never thought I'd see the day,"

and slides the can in front of me.

 

I take a sip.

 

"Me too, Joyce,

me too..."

 

 

 

 

 

 

empty envelopes.

 

 

your body

was sculpted smoothly

behind your dress.

my bones

were tailored tightly

beneath my suit.

 

love dangled on a line

that afternoon

like bait,

awaiting our first bite.

 

hope lay on the banks

of the eyes of the guests,

who embraced us

with assurance that

 

everything will be fine.

 

hands entwined

with drink and song

flowed into

a sea of dance

 

as the world spun

to the rhythmic beat

of young hearts uniting.

 

glasses were raised

to toast:

 

'the ones who were going to make it'—

 

 

as tonight

crept into bed—

with mourning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

we do, until we don’t.

 

 

as the beginning years leaned into us,

 

we walked through the smoke

of the hallway fires

and emerged only slightly winded,

with just enough in the lungs

to make a few more trips

around the sun.

 

until the day,

flames crept under the door,

moved along the living room ceiling,

dripped down the walls,

and ran rampant across

our bedroom floor.

 

we would be burned alive

if we didn't start running,

unaware that someone's legs

would give out

before the others did.

 

 

every now and again,

we would return home

and place our romance

between the picture frames

as a peace offering

to the gods,

 

but during the night,

the earth would shake it loose

and it would fall into the darkness

behind the couch.

 

so we gathered

the last few shards of light

that slid through the rolling clouds

and strung them tightly together

with our remaining moments

 

 

 

before anchoring the strands

to the balcony

with two pairs of footprints,

 

sliding the glass door closed,

and pulling down the blinds.

 

and we laid one last time

with the warmth

of our electric hum

that was once the incubator

of the life

we planned to grow

together,

 

until we lost

the last bit of air

beneath the white flag

that replaced our bed sheets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

nothing more.

 

 

she said,

give me lust.

 

I gave her love.

 

she said,

give me fire.

 

I gave her warmth.

 

she said,

give me dreams.

 

I gave her hope.

 

she said,

give me ALL of you.

 

I could only give her

pieces.

 

she said,

I need more.

 

I said,

“I gave you all

that I could give.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

alone together.

 

 

there is

no sadness greater

 

than that of

 

being held in the arms

of another

 

and feeling completely                                                                                                                       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                      

 

                                                                                                                                   

 

                                                                                                                                    alone.

you without you.

 

 

they say the relationship

between a father and son

is a foundation

that is built strong.

 

to the contrary,

my relationship was made from

the entrails of small offerings

that swayed in the breeze.

and barley was held together

by a love that was labored,

which often left my hands

cracked and bloodied.

 

but there were moments

where the sun would skate across

his eye.

 

(he only had one real one;

maybe this was why he saw the world

so differently than you and I.)

 

and if, by chance,

I happened to find myself

at the right angle,

I could feel warmth

from the reflection.

 

more often than not,

there was a dense cold

that filled the room so heavily

that our breaths

couldn't even meet halfway,

so from a distance,

we would watch each other

shake.

 

all the nights

fighting so hard to stay apart

only wore us down

separately.

if only we had fought

as one,

our love could have at least

exhausted itself

together.

 

 

a nurse turns on the overhead light

and exposes me

at my most human moment

as I stand above him.

 

just a shell is confined to

this aluminum-framed casket,

held together solely by wires

and hospital sheets.

 

he lays motionless

with skin so transparent

that you can see the blue

slowly leaving each vein.

 

an oxygen mask

rests crooked over his mouth.

any chance of our laughter

synchronizing at a pitch

that would crack the paint

on the strongest wall

has now vanished.

 

his eyes are closed

with no dreams behind them,

and no matter where I move

in the room,

comfort at any angle
won't be found to reflect.

 

the disease

ransacked his body

and ran off over the hills

with his speech.

 

one can press on without these

if you have

a mind

to hold together

what little you have left of

your soul,

but when that is taken

without warning so quickly

that you forget the self

you never knew

you once were,

 

you become

you

without

you.

 

 

every man

is entitled to leave this world

by whatever agreement

he and the gods

have made.

 

no man, however,

deserves to take his final breath

without ever knowing

that they even

existed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the box.

 

 

there’s a

profoundly

ironic

correlation

between

life

     and

             death.

 

when you are

born,

you are

pulled

out

of a box

as a gift

FROM

the earth,

 

and

 

when you

die,

you are

put back

in

a box

as a gift

TO

the earth.

 

let that

             sink in…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

interlude.

 

 

Life

is waiting

to be played.

 

drop

the needle

and spin

that record

 

from

start

 

to

finish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

gambling with Life.

 

 

threw a hundo

into Life.

pulled the arm

for a one-shot

and let'er spin.

7 / BAR / 7

damn.

 

played Life

in the poker den.

laid down a flush,

but the bastard

showed a full house.

damn.

 

took the dice

from Life

at the table,

gave’em a blow,

and tossed’em good.

snake eyes.

damn.

 

met Life at the bar

and bought him a drink.

 

asked him

how he got so lucky.

 

he said

it's not about luck,

my friend;

 

when

 

YOU

bet against

ME,

 

I always win.

 

 

cheers to you, Life.

beating the con.

 

 

the deranged are the ones

consumed by the notion

that if they suffer long enough,

peace

will find them.

 

when the crippling ache

of anticipation

shows no signs of mercy,

that’s when they pull

their own hearts out

and hang them

from the basement rafters.

 

 

the mad are the ones

who walk the tightrope

backwards,

as we figured out

life’s 'big con'

quicker than the rest.

 

by allowing defeat

to annihilate us

early on in our days,

we could then dance

weightless

into the night,

free from the burdens

of unattainable hope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

surviving in the war.

 

 

the bums have figured out

how to survive

in the war:

 

possessing near to nothing

on the outside;

 

it's the constant fear of dying

empty on the inside

 

that ignites such a hungry fire

for life

within their battle—

 

to be fed first by

the scraps

this world allows us

to fight for—

 

that their fire burns the backs

of all those they climb over.

 

 

my day will come,

and I will stand with them

on the street,

 

hold out my hands,

and await any crumb

I pray they may leave.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

hunger.

 

 

if we eat

what we are

 

and we are

what we eat,

then why,

 

when I feed on

the word,

 

does the word

 

leave me

hungry

 

?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

to-do list.

 

 

MONDAY

- hide 100 Ziploc bags

full of oxygen

next to the 50 napkins

marked with lipstick kisses

from your first love's lips

under your bed.

 

 

TUESDAY

- bury your remaining diamonds

horizontally

with the dog bones

beside the oak tree

in the backyard soil

at dawn.

 

 

WEDNESDAY

- paint your other cat black

to match her sister,

so intruders

won't know

which one

stole the sunset

from

your mother's eyes.

 

 

THURSDAY

- put on your camouflage suit

in the same shade

as humanity wears,

so you can get within reach

to feel the breath

of

their secrets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

FRIDAY

- set fire to your soul

so your heart warms enough

to crack apart your frozen jaw

so it can speak

in conversations

worth having.

 

 

SATURDAY

- finish the one you began writing

but then stopped

because it wasn't going to be any better

than the one before

and probably would end up being worse

than the one that will follow,

so you put it away

while you started

another one.

 

 

SUNDAY

- shake hands

to make amends

with God

while you keep

the Devil

on all fours

with a leash

around his neck

as your demons

cling to his back

wearing

gold chains

and

dynamite vests.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fashion faux pas.

 

 

when they said,

 

"never wear white

after Labour Day," 

 

they didn’t think of

my poor neighbour

having to close her blinds

 

 

as I walked out the door

 

completely naked

 

again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a nugget of wisdom.

 

 

never make love

with the lights on.

 

if you see things

looking up

and at you,

 

things all around

and on you,

 

things that that bounce,

and sway,

and smack you

square in the face—

 

surely those sights

would put the fear of God

into any

man.

 

and the idea of

watching a body contort

and move in gyrations

that are damn near

extraterrestrial—

 

well, that thought alone

could scare the white

right off a bed sheet.

 

if you go for it,

make your move in the dark;

it's much safer that way,

 

but more importantly,

it tricks the girls into thinking

that you really know

what the hell you're doing.

 

 

 

 

 

'tis the season.

 

 

I never could understand

the people who are

infatuated with Christmas.

 

 

the day the tree is up

and the decorations are hung,

they're filled with

an overwhelming joy of victory,

like lying with a piece of ass

completely out of your league

and lasting for more than

a pump.

 

the minute it's over

and everything is put away,

they're hit with such

crushing layers of sadness

that it's like they lost

their mother

and cat

on the same day,

at the same time,

right in front of them.

 

I don't know if they're purely playing

the 'ignorance' card

or if they are utterly unaware

of how upside down

the world is—

 

 

there's heroine lovers

kissing the curse

of the rusty needle

in the back corners of dark alleys

at midday,

 

while Sara and Johnny

write little offerings of love

to one another

in sidewalk chalk

across the street

as the soft October sun

kisses them lightly

on the cheek. 

 

some people want so badly

to be alone

that they jump

out of their skin

before falling

from apartment windows,

 

while others

break through lobby doors

with an army behind them

to take the lead

during an orgy party.

 

boys are boys

but think they are girls;

women become men

and other men

become both;

 

some of us are just happy

the cats didn't piss on

the freshly cleaned sheets,

while the rest want to be

nothing

at all.

 

 

I guess my warning to

all you seasonal lovers is:

 

keep your tree up

as long as you can;

 

one day

the world will tear them down

all at once,

and you're not ready

for that holiday

to end.

 

 

 

as the world burns.

 

 

I dig my toes into the sand

near the end of the ocean,

where the water can slightly fumble

across my feet.

 

my body becomes a canvas

as a soft morning breeze

finds its way beneath my shirt.

it draws unfamiliar lines

with the beads of sweat

across my skin,

 

and I feel cold.

 

 

I light a cigarette

and exhale the smoke,

distorting the outline of the city

as it glides across the horizon.

 

I remember the buildings

standing tall and significant,

towering with ambition.

 

now they seem bent and tired,

like a fire is burning

beneath them all.

the foundations are melting,

and everything

is slowly being pulled

into the earth.

 

 

a necklace wrapped around

a piece of wood

washes up beside me.

and I'm hit with the scent

of perfume

and burnt cedar.

 

I untangle the gold knots

and hold the locket

in my hands.

 

there's no photo inside

when I open it,

so I close my eyes

and imagine the girl

who wore it—

someone tarnished and broken

like her accessory.

 

 

she floats alone

through a crowded party,

waiting for the song to finish

so a new one can begin—

one that she remembers.

 

she finds a corner

and presses her back

against the wall.

 

her hand

holds a drink

a bit too tight.

 

heads and bodies

swirl around her,

the music carriers on

as a figure approaches,

 

and she watches the room

disappear

into his blue eyes.

 

his lips

are a lush pink

around his wide smile.

 

he stands defiant,
but his touch is soft

as he introduces himself.

 

she trembles

as she holds his hand

a bit too long.

 

 

he has everything

she needs

to save her,

 

she thought…

 

 

I open my eyes,

and the growing light

illuminates my body.

 

that chill I felt earlier

now becomes the outline

of my shadow

painted across the beach.

 

I stand and put the necklace

in my pocket.

 

I'll keep her with me;

she doesn't need to drift

with the unsettled tide

anymore.

 

she is safe now.

 

 

I look out across the ocean

once more

and take a deep breath.

 

a piece of ash

falls onto the shoulder

above my heart.

 

that's when I realized

the world burns brightest

just before dawn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

structures of love.

 

 

the place was rammed for a Tuesday,

and I always liked when the air was thick

with loveless camaraderie.

 

I squeezed in tight

next to John at the bar.

it was good to see a familiar face,

even though I

was never fond of his.

 

he was building something out of

drink coasters and empty bottles;

it was quite the creation.

 

"I was going to be an architect,"

he said, not looking up.

 

I could see his failed dream

reflecting off the bar mirror

as he placed one more piece

into another empty spot,

hoping to construct an answer

as to where it all went wrong.

 

maybe he could have designed buildings.

maybe the drink got him,

or maybe

the human structures of love

broke him too soon.

 

sometimes you need to give in

to giving up

just to see what you're made of.

 

I nodded at the thought,

assuring myself of this.

 

 

Jane touched my shoulder

as I finished a big pull.

"it's so busy,

but I knew I'd find you here,"

she sighed.

 

"to be everywhere

is to be nowhere, babe.

you might as well just pick

somewhere

that has a comfy seat,"

I said, turning around.

 

her body hung limp

while her mascara loosened the room.

she always had the right amount of

loneliness and abused elegance

for me to drink that cocktail warm,

 

so I ordered us two

and pulled her in.

 

 

I knew it was going to be a good night

because sex is always better

when it's desperate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

maybe tomorrow.

 

 

I want you to surprise me with flowers

in the morning.

 

maybe tomorrow.

 

I want you to call me at work

and tell me you miss me.

 

maybe tomorrow.

 

I want you to take me for a romantic dinner

at a fancy restaurant.

 

maybe tomorrow.

 

I want you to walk with me

by the water at sunset.

 

maybe tomorrow.

 

I want you to hold

and kiss me.

 

maybe tomorrow.

 

I want you to make love with me

like we used to.

 

maybe tomorrow.

 

 

“it’s always tomorrow with you.

what about today?

what if I leave you today?!”

 

“you said that yesterday.”

 

“I mean it this time!”

 

maybe,

tomorrow.

 

 

sole mates.

 

 

our love

wears old

as these shoes,

 

tattered and torn

but never

thrown away.

 

though

the miles we travel

are made in torture,

 

we are

never alone

to walk through

the fire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

not tonight.

 

 

on nights like these,

I think of the affair

with the two-headed temptress

in the torn dress:

 

a body curved with such beauty

that the sun would starve for a touch

but eyes like wells

that would never wash

my wishes clean,

 

a tongue so lean

it would slip notes of lust

between my lips

but with teeth curved like hooks

that would drag me across the floor

and hang my body

like a kill,

 

methodically butchering pieces off me

to be sold back to my loved ones

as a reminder of

who I was.

 

 

taste me

to feel complete, she said,

but drink me

to lose what little you have left.

 

I took a sip

to feel the 'embrace'

and swallowed

when I couldn't find

any 'pieces' remaining,

 

until I immersed the days

unconscious,

desperately looking

for either.

 

 

 

naked and chained

at the ankle with her,

I laughed at the world

but cried for myself

 

as no one knew

that for so many years,

within a body bearing my name,

a missing person

was slowly being buried alive.

 

 

I scatter the ashes

of the one that came

and left

its lasting mark—

 

and I hear the chains

beat against the door—

 

 

not today, my love,

and surely not tonight,

 

on nights like these.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

last call.

 

 

when the soul

is empty,

 

the drink

is filled.

 

when the drink

is empty,

 

the

       soul

                                                         is

                       FULL.