the tourist
Blue Crack Addict
- Joined
- Dec 25, 2003
- Messages
- 27,919
she said you wouldn't understand. she
said she couldn't
believe it even. and i
listened to her and believed her.
maybe you wouldn't understand. maybe you would become murk. wallowing
like swine
with iron rings through noses, ears, tongues, belly-buttons.
beautiful girl puts heartbroken
boy underfoot. trampled.
she says you're not old enough.
she says she's not young enough.
she says she's too pregnant.
and i heard her but i didn't want to believe her. maybe my ears are broken. maybe
i don't really know you. so dastardly bland
and tattooed up black,
you're a star in somebody elses sky (when i wish it could be mine). why can't it be mine? beautiful boy
writes a song on a McDonald's napkin. plays
a borrowed guitar
with a broken pick, singing in a steel-wool gargled voice.
and he's punch drunk again. sordid
and a mess, drinking
the juice she wouldn't kiss his lips under the entranced madness therein impartial sparse ridicule. and maybe
i like it that way
because i'm no good on top. trampled.
read your book and she'll understand you. speak her language and she'll listen to you. touch her lips with yours and she'll kiss you. ask her hand in marriage but she won't wed you.
deplorative slanting children falling between the cracks beneath the autumn's pale evening into the hanging-down light socket, shaded sky, burned like a match to a gloss page of sickening magazine, wireless intelligence and words and images of laughter and propaganda, and we laughed and we cried and we listened to music together and called it interstellar forms of sound and waves or maybe that was just me, but you sure looked pretty in that new black blouse.
said she couldn't
believe it even. and i
listened to her and believed her.
maybe you wouldn't understand. maybe you would become murk. wallowing
like swine
with iron rings through noses, ears, tongues, belly-buttons.
beautiful girl puts heartbroken
boy underfoot. trampled.
she says you're not old enough.
she says she's not young enough.
she says she's too pregnant.
and i heard her but i didn't want to believe her. maybe my ears are broken. maybe
i don't really know you. so dastardly bland
and tattooed up black,
you're a star in somebody elses sky (when i wish it could be mine). why can't it be mine? beautiful boy
writes a song on a McDonald's napkin. plays
a borrowed guitar
with a broken pick, singing in a steel-wool gargled voice.
and he's punch drunk again. sordid
and a mess, drinking
the juice she wouldn't kiss his lips under the entranced madness therein impartial sparse ridicule. and maybe
i like it that way
because i'm no good on top. trampled.
read your book and she'll understand you. speak her language and she'll listen to you. touch her lips with yours and she'll kiss you. ask her hand in marriage but she won't wed you.
deplorative slanting children falling between the cracks beneath the autumn's pale evening into the hanging-down light socket, shaded sky, burned like a match to a gloss page of sickening magazine, wireless intelligence and words and images of laughter and propaganda, and we laughed and we cried and we listened to music together and called it interstellar forms of sound and waves or maybe that was just me, but you sure looked pretty in that new black blouse.