O, the days of wild abandon:
of vanilla cigars & gin & juice
of honey dripping off your body at night
and ants in the sheets come the morning light
of hoisted up in the shower, twisted & sudsy sex
of breaking the soap dish; not seeing through the steam
of grilling summer peaches for lunch & letting them char & letting them burn
whilst roaming hands went where they needed to be
of having
and wanting
and having again
and again
of the first precocious kiss you planted
of the first name I wrote (it was yours) in the snow
of our initials carved at Coney Island; witnessed by the freakshow & the sand & cotton candy & the boardwalk of our future, good intentions
of soon-to-come growing, great dividing distance and ever increasing melancholia
of jealous tongues of lying teeth of lips imparting desperate, vitriolic goodbyes
of wanting it back
-if only taking it back,
and wanting it back again
and again.
-The Frockette
of vanilla cigars & gin & juice
of honey dripping off your body at night
and ants in the sheets come the morning light
of hoisted up in the shower, twisted & sudsy sex
of breaking the soap dish; not seeing through the steam
of grilling summer peaches for lunch & letting them char & letting them burn
whilst roaming hands went where they needed to be
of having
and wanting
and having again
and again
of the first precocious kiss you planted
of the first name I wrote (it was yours) in the snow
of our initials carved at Coney Island; witnessed by the freakshow & the sand & cotton candy & the boardwalk of our future, good intentions
of soon-to-come growing, great dividing distance and ever increasing melancholia
of jealous tongues of lying teeth of lips imparting desperate, vitriolic goodbyes
of wanting it back
-if only taking it back,
and wanting it back again
and again.
-The Frockette
i miss you.
ridiculous, i know.
that very act which defies all caustic memories these past nine months have contained
and against my better judgement;
my logical, rational mind and shrouded, over-protective heart.
somewhere buried inside me there is a compartment that is not calloused,
that has not shut you out.
a tiny space that remembers the warmth, the ache and the epiphany of love
and not its antithesis.
in this sliver, this membrane, this cell- you move through me like osmosis.
you exist still in electrical synapses. you are part of my hard wiring.
and in that current and those seconds- i miss you.
ridiculous, i know.
Beautiful sentiments by Matthew Heller
Simplicity regins.
Not a care in the world save
where my bike will lead.
-The Frockette
Goodnight, my little gypsy boy.
I've put you to bed in my mind.
No more running around
hungry for you affection,
for on reflection;
I've found your gypsy liberties aren't kind.
-The Frockette
if I never see you again
I will always carry you
inside
outside
on my fingertips
and at brain edges
and in centers
centers
of what I am of
what remains.
—Charles Bukowski
Their insistent undertones are as excited and impatient as petulant children.
They meet at night, in silence, for the tacit agreement of emergency love.
The act begins.
The walls clamour for the valour of her moans;
uninhibited, melancholic, unashamed.
He clings to every fibre of her realness,
her tangible body,
that which is beautifully flawed.
They are night birds.
Never more familiar and removed from one another.
Fingers tug and rip at buttons, seams, any obstacle in the way of flesh.
Silence remains.
Words would only mar this magnificent duet.
Just touch; the urgency of the ephemeral love is understood.
Enclose me and I will resign myself to you.
Then the walls will clamour for our love
and bemoan the morning when the buttons are fastened once more
and we become strangers again.
