Monday, 17 November 2014

in the blue and warm

i'd make you meatballs
and Mediterranean food
we'd sing like we were in an opera
and ride horseback in the nude
i'd make you famous
like a word or a restaurant
on film or stage in some poem
wrecked with mixed up words and meanings
our love would be beautifully deceiving
painted and made up like art and plaster
happy ever after

a pot at infinity

you know that feeling you get
when you're not quite depressed
somewhere not fully stressed
before the black crows and before the rainbows
appetite's shot and the coffee's too hot
nothing seems to be a prefect fit
and the mirror distorts every day with it's 
habitual lies and moaning
stomach groaning 
from sugar rush and digested mush
those who have and have not
push you
you just might take a pot
at infinity.

You know that hunger that comes
when you hang by your thumbs
all cymbals and drums
all sticks and bones
everybody else face down in their phones
face full of fruit and fly by the seat
of your pants like some bitch on heat
you consider your options
you toy with concoctions
and memory plays tricks
like a slowed down eater
who is and who is not
open to taking a pot
at infinity.