aayoung
.
every word tumbled off
his biforcated tongue
was exaggeration
diminished reason
justification
grand delusion
half truths
folded gently
into lies
melted pretty please
bullshit buttered
sweet peas
conspiracy theories
baked into
blackbird pie
melodic compositions
leaving a dense fog
of fetid floating
musical notes
breath
Faustian
devil in the details
leading his trusting musician
to snap
an unwilling head
in revulsion
when the truth emerged bloody
before burning eyes
the twenty-seventh day of december
in a year
we did not share together
.
afterglow of christmas beaming
from the tree
through my scotch-taped-back-together soul
.
tis the season to ache infinitely
.
driving through light strands
of red and yellow traffic
to the art museum upon the hill
.
with the little park beside it
where the son we will never have
took his first wobbly
bear dripping honey grinning steps
.
into your arms as i watched filming
jumping and cooing the way a mother does
over the littlest triumphs
.
but we never were, darling
our lips never touched
.
our breathy kissed love affair
ether white wedding by the sea
raven haired children
are nothing
but a shared
far away dream
.
an assorted pile of glistening
christmas presents
never to be wrapped
accumulating beneath
my tinsel heart
to consider his victim pool
is quite staggering
all of them spent time
lashed to a provisional chair
a designated corpse
forced to wear a party hat
yet once they hacked their own arms off
to escape his attic constraints
each went on
to wondrous achievements
and it’s not because life with him
is an exclusive prep school for young women
with only one degree field offered
in overcoming sadomasochism
though it may be a touch to spite him
he abhors being less than
because bitch
you’ll never be equal to
no, no
it’s that he has a predilection
for attempting to destroy
the most beautiful things
this day
i am the way
james dean’s white t-shirt
clung to his rippling biceps
i am the moment bessamer
discovered
he could make steel from iron ore
i am the line of marilyn’s spine
in a backless gown
i am the sharpened bloody edge
of joan of arc’s sword
i am a snarling indian defending what is mine
by charging my painted horse
into war
there’s a bar in the kitchen
where i sit alone most evenings
but not tonight
as sundays are for communing with the dead
the hour finds me sharing a scotch
with zevon’s vaporous ghost
he sits beside me strumming his immaculate gibson guitar
singing that his shit’s fucked up
i concur
explaining how i have acquired the sickening habit
of being unable to ignore the truth
in the door walks every bloody sacrifice i’ve carried in offering
to the goddess of being a lousy cunt
the heaviness you feel when your head is resting in your hands
is the weight of every choice you’ve ever made
i’ll never know your love
this will be the last thought
as my coins are handed to the ferryman
this is the price of admission
