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
Monday, April 21, 2014 6:05 AM
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rust and angel's blood
scraps of paper float in the air
through the japanese night,
making the pieces of
last year’s letters
become illegible sentences;
all wrinkled and unknowable
like your beat-up personality,
your tough-as-nails,
bright as sapphires
artisan-made heart.
my casket muse of damaged bones,
i write lyrics about
your ripcord tongue
and crave to skinny-dip into
your post-it blue eyes,
but you just pull me
into the outskirts of
your trickster stare
and i eventually drown
in the crucified
waves of your smile.
crystal raindrops slide down your neck
as we kiss, our lips cold
and holding nothing but
a bottle-necked affection,
a one-sided proclamation;
friendship bracelets
gone missing somewhere
in a field of lakota
grass and wise man’s tales,
empty promises
tinged with rust
and angel’s blood.
and as i tattoo my own
perspective of a magazine
urban legend onto
my music box mixtape of
scripted sincerity,
the sugar acid sky
drinks my tears as
a sour-sweet sacrifice.
boy, you are a feather
that fell off a mythical
creature’s storybook wing,
a chip of glass from
heaven’s window,
mistaken for an african
diamond dusted with sand.
your eyes, the melody of ashes,
hostage rare dragonflies
whose secrets yearn to
be buried beneath our
tranquil sanctuary,
where reia-lily petals
and russian ballerinas
pirouette within
a kabuki cyclone.
you’re so rough
around the edges
but gorgeous within;
lasting a millennium,
your honey-wheat irises
sparkle with mischief and lust,
tantalizing pools of
bright saturday night fun.
and as our fingertips burn
like static electricity,
a playground of nymphs
sing a carousel lullaby
in our memory
while a bottle cap moon
gets stuck between
a polaroid of crows.
and i’m only here because
we’ve been friends forever,
not because you really want me
to be your gaslit paramour.
you in your motorcycle jacket,
stark against a jaded
new york street;
boy, you’ll always be
unreachable to me.