| Book One -A- |
| acquired taste grasping from that place we hide reaching for the extra strength break on into the darker side victory is an acquired taste that grows up on you and then just dies watching as the fist comes up to your face you can see the flinch frozen and pale after all I could spend every cliché I've been saving for years On your dark eyes. I could use every adjective I've ever stumbled over On your soft voice. I could waste every moment that I'm meant to feel joy Making love to you. Maybe I will. I found the time Maybe I should Cause it's my dime After all. I could relive every moment I've spent in your arms While grinning like this. I could devote my free time Proving conclusively I love you completely. I could spend my whole life Studying your eyes And what I feel. Maybe I will all of that i give good punk and smoke green skunk i clean up my mess and zip my own dress i'm not afraid of you and i know what you do what you are what you were what you lost i'm all of that i'll stop on that dime if it's worth my time i'll take it too far you just wait in the car i'll fuck some shit up i know you're not tough what you are what you were what i found where you drown i'm all of that angry Someone told me I sounded angry Like they were admiring my taste in drapes. Kind of in awe of how I got THOSE colors to work. Look buster, here's the thing: The colors DON'T work. They are made up of memories I Tend to regard as bad movies That never happened to me. You see, I AM Cleopatra. And the only thing you should Be admiring from that anonymous desk Is that I haven't taken a 12 gauge to Mark Anthony and blamed it all On something Caesar did. Queen of denial. Yeah, I'm angry. I just can't say why. I can't even convince myself I'm Not a pathological liar Or just so crazy I invented my whole life. What would you be? But hey, it's my pain and I'm Not hurting anyone with it. Every poem I write means one Less scar on my body . . . To match the one on my soul. In this society I could easily Go kill a few people then Whine at the judge and Walk away from it all. But I just sit here quietly writing . . . Being . . . Angry. Anything If you asked me to tell you anything I'd tell you I want you to love me Just as much as anyone can. I'd tell you how I don't feel ugly, At least not in your arms. Then I'd explain that I don't care How long I've known you; And I don't care What the rules have been. I just want the time to fly So you can feel all right to say 'I love you' and I can feel Okay not fleeing or punching you For saying such a silly thing. apropos of nothing "you have a lot of pictures of yourself" ya, well, its an obsession "do you ever wonder how many vacation photos you end up on?" no, though it would explain random bad mojo in my life "how does it feel to be the most photographed person in the immediate area?" pretty fucking empty chip said last night at the bar that one person telling us we're great is nice, but what we need (us performers) is 5,000 of them and last night i agreed and mostly i still do . . . except sometimes when i think about people and realize there are "ones" who make it seem like 5,000 you know what i mean? some people have this thing that makes their attention and praise seem like it's from the masses, it carries that much weight with you you believe what they tell you, they are that convincing in their sincerity and when that runs out, it still feels like 5,000 people all of them turning their backs and you get hurt and then angry and if you are smart, you go on, if only to prove that one wrong prove that you can do it whatever it is and sometimes you are rewarded with the 5,000 for that effort. and sometimes, even after all that, you still miss the one. |