FireSoulPhoenix

Two tablets every six hours
are needed to numb me
from this stale,
reticulating air;
Anti-histamines
to help me help myself
and live this life I so carefully
founded on my Daddy's pride.
In a structured conundrum,
such as my Capitalist delight,
perception seems a little less
parallel to the ground,
when you notice
the brevity
of a good pie.
-
"Happy Birthday, dear Charlotte."
-
Charlotte?
Is she French:
feminine and petite?
Does she live on a farm?
Does she live in a barn?
Does she save a certain Babe?
From a certain date with fate?
-
"She's your co-worker, hun--
Has been for six months."
Oh.
Happy Birthday, dear Charlotte.
-
I was part of the clean-up crew,
volunteering for a job I didn't
know why I wanted.
And while in the restroom,
fetching towels to sop up
spilled coffee and cookie crumbs,  
the tampon machine became pulverized,
by my painfully high heels.
(I would later use the dimes
to buy a low-fat,
honey-nut granola bar.)
I spent the rest of the workday
crying

Awake during naptime,
Tee-ball star Billy doodles
Grandpa's house on the board.
A crazy storm quenches
lusting ground beyond
these white brick walls,
while across the asphalt lot,
the lonely lit mag editor
is craving for someone
to be her word(play)mate.
In this chalk outline abode,
a cat yawns betwixt a curtain
and the viscous glass of yesteryear--
thicker at the bottom,
like the French maid fired
last Friday.
Lady purrs in her eternal respite,
and in her lucky oblivion
to the human invention of time.
Meanwhile,
her blind owner gropes for a cane,
in a slow, cinematic
scene of helplessness.
His age bleeds through his
crooked spine and loneliness
in the love of the Lady
that he'll never see.
But she is no Seeing Eye dog;
she even fears the outdoors.
And this is not the summer
she dreamed of
the last time
she watched the sky fall white.

Stark adoration bore us a son--
one zenith to coin astrological points
and you, the temptation, curl above one,
punctuation to prune our now-setting sun.
  
(It's tragically wonderful.
It's tragically fun.
How the curve of thine joints
tempts my fingers to run
Through this mark of this question
down the disks in your back
"So take me right back to the track,
Jack.")
And I crave an asylum to house all my screams
to haunt madhouse floorboards,
white coat-clad regimes.
Monochrome thread is what's binding their seams,
while I bring inhaling to the extremes.
"Overdose on oxygen, call 911!"
Sorry, I've taken a train,
for a trip, to Belgium
To eat chocolate and waffles
with you, of course,
so you can teach me to stepdance
and then get a divorce.
You said, "Hate's like a diamond. Hate never dies."
And I laughed, then gouged a spork in your eyes
and scooped out the jelly and went out to dine,
with a new date,
a darling,
someone to call mine.

Down through the ladder rungs,
a mouse eye view
                            s
                                l
                            i
                               p
                   s
under the gradient.
(Looped) music spoon-feeds nostalgia
and the static cling leaves life,
          detached and  r a v e n o u s.
Though you've entrusted me with your yellow brick road, it seems I have died in the middle of it-- laughing in my daytime dress and all.
And it was
a simple matter of indecisiveness,
where messenger angels toted Tommy guns, double
spacing became a rule and
habit-forming lullabies nullified
          my cam-whore.
It was not
a simple matter of abused adjectives,
          you,
ticker tape parades gone
                                   askew,
or of the undercoat of time
          whittling away;
one click for every evidence
of objects slung across the wooden floor,
and hackneyed fo

Please excuse me, as I step outside,
Or rather- make myself some time,
To find some shade by a pond to breathe under,
And skip my glass slippers o'er the plane.
                                    Shall I curtsy before taking my leave?
                                            To break the girl inconceivable.
                                     Shall I curse after staining the carpet?
 

How cliché you were
My darling,
To tilt your head back willingly
And let the silver shards caress your neck
To bathe under the dryness of his breath
And taste the salty residue of his ache
Unable to cry after the fading daylight died…
Different colors made of tears
Now illuminate our candle-lighten lane
Where our footsteps burned our tracks into the ground
We left inside the cavern of his heart
A willow never weeped so sweetly…
I watched it all,
Your backyard transform into graveyard
While you sang in the wind from a willow tree
To tombs sealed with your crimson-colored kiss
A hint of sugar had adorned your lips
Telling of your morning tea
And the baby's breath did brown with no remorse…
Talons bruise the feeble fruits of youth
Desert sands too beautiful for life
We'll dance under the eagles overhead
For tonight,
We'll have one final drink with death.