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Adam Perry |
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Something Blue In the bedroom, waiting -- what if we were dancing on the inside, in the middle of a crowd and the sound of whiskey filling a glass was like a confederate army coming over our town, over our women and children like a setting sun, like fellatio on our good intentions. The passing of a jar is like the exchange of spit, accidentally holding hands with the woman of your dreams, touching hips at the bar and rolling your eyes, getting drunk to the jazz trumpet our son will be born to. I closed my eyes and saw your brown skin and your first love pulling the trigger, going down, and a mirror-ball somewhere. I cant afford another drink but when your tongue touches mine I cant help but die, or realize you're old enough to be my mother, or suck me in my sleep, You dance with strangers and your arms feel numb, but tomorrow will be judgement day -- blonde hair will gray and fall out; your imagination will spin and run dry, you'll nod your head as I doze off, a thumping rhythm rising from the nervous hearts of premature girls, their fragile bones and awkward fantasies slip into a dream state, lonely and regurgitating imaginary cum, walking like a panther in black-lit nurseries, fading away into the 20th century. I sit alone...my knuckles crack and I feel power -- you walk away and trip over a few stray pictures of my old life; you bend over and invite me in...two hands frantically together, sick red eyes flash in the morning after. |