a n t i s e p t i c . l o v e . s o n g s
poem collaborations by Poetic Star [sharon] and Aya Scribbles [tiara] baby, your arsenic lips still taste
like winter never ended and
you know I'd kill myself
for more
♥
a r c h i v e s
previous entries
maybe in distance,
but not in heart..
bleed the colors of
the evening stars
Wednesday, August 29, 2012 7:02 PM
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dirty angel lips
The irresistible grunge guitar and guttural prettiness of my favorite singer’s voice drew me out of the house, despite my grandmother’s strict rules. A friend was waiting at the end of the neighborhood, sitting in her jeep with her feet propped up on the dashboard. And we sped through the late Toronto haze, already mouthing lyrics as excitement thumped in our lacy black moth chests.
There was a café hidden deep in the city’s thicket that was the setting for our youthful escapade. Denim tights and eye shadow hearts adorned my wiry frame as my friend applied pink truffle lip shine to her fearless smile and linked her arm through mine as we hurried across the yellow pavement.
Inside, people were already swaying in a fog of indigo and broken zombie love songs; a dissonance of sounds screaming through the aftermath of a spider web refrain. It was as if a requiem was playing in my memory and I was so lost in the unchained tunes of distorted angels that I almost missed your shape, leaning against the exit doorframe.
Torn cornflower jeans and an Alice in Chains t-shirt under faded jacket sleeves; you were decked out in a 90s trailer park costume that made me curious. Silky indigenous black hair cascaded beautifully down your neck but your skin has a ghastly pallor.
You spotted me and we shared a glance that was impossibly fleeting and soft like the time span of a raindrop landing on my arm before it melts into apricot. Then you turned towards the stairs, ascending as I rushed to catch your retreating mystery.
Bran, your ashtray eyes led me to the rooftop but when I got up there, there was no sign of your dangerously cool existence; just the wet breeze whipping through my hair and a crow or raven of some wicked sort, tapping across the ledge.
Bran, you were too bright for this stranded person but the soot-covered bird had the same smokescreen stare you harbored before vanishing.
And when I finally saw you again, shooting stars hit the concrete but I barely noticed the twinkling disorder because you were illuminated with a spotlight of your own. Standing alone in the middle of the street, you looked like a lost boy so far from home.
Stretching up on my tiptoes, I impulsively caressed your cheek, just to know what it feels like to burn underneath your sugar cube skin and when you began to utter an unsolved paperback murder, my heart melted into a puddle of forget-me-not sympathy.
The 1992 Mitsubishi Galant you were driving crashed into a boulder on a winding mountain-side road one evening when you were coming back from your girlfriend’s house. Later you found out that the brakes had been tampered with and that the accident was intended for your sweetheart but unfortunately you fell into this evil trap instead.
Heaven’s gates were padlocked, sending you back to solve the riddle of your violent death. Twenty years have passed, but this was the first time someone listened to your confessions.
I placed a finger on your dirty angel lips to silence your clover leaf ramblings, feeling what it’s like to smolder in the afterglow of your smile.