You never lose a word from under the sheets
it can evaporate into desire within lightbulbs
of dark fiction. You tend to write about them,
blue octagons of your nightmares, the
lined frames of wisdom you neglected
to admonish. All these poets, they
love to see you crawl through utopian
skies. They love to see you die
a poetic death, make sure theirs
becomes immortal while your vampire
stories die under golden
Greek suns. I have unimpressed you
with bath time fun
you stopped playing mindless games
showed me your grey hair.
I can still cross my legs
be a drunken listener.
the lights are red, but i want to go up
into the sky. drive right through
the pink and purple all night long.
this is my porn. you text me
your naughty, i’ll dream
in the fucking clouds. it’s june
second, two thousand and fifteen,
remember the 80’s? i relive them.
another full moon? do you
really care all that much? stop
howling. i feel it in every cell.
you’re fucked up.
I think my imagination
is so wild
would run away.
but, you stay, you
make me believe
that the sunset
was a masterpiece
and the darkness
the moon controls us
like love, we’re
to its pulling effect.
catch me tonight at
nine pm…its’ my son’s
but i’ll still be falling
from the sky.
don’t forget to look up
and extend your arms,
even if you don’t see me.