he tastes like original sin, that first burn of alcohol down your throat. he touches you like dawn touches the ground, sweetly and slowly, but there's something too sharp there, something in his eyes and the way he sounds like guilt, maybe like that time when you covered your ears because the world was too loud. you're wearing red lipstick that's a shade too red but that doesn't matter, because the apple doesn't ever fall too far, does it, and he is always where you belong. you don't want to think about his liliths and their fig leaves, and eve has been too overrated a role for you to play. he tastes like god struck him down and lucifer embra
connais-moi?
tu me regardes avec les yeux grands,
un il brun, il me rend heureuse
mais ton il bleu, je crois
je crois qu'il est comme un mer,
un petit océan bleu, n'est-ce pas?
les écrivains le disent, et il est beau.
je le dis, et ils rient de moi
mais peut-être tout le monde,
nous sommes tous écrivains, et nos mots
nos petits mots, ils sont beaux.
sonnet iv - unfortunate by PuppetsPoisonInk, literature
Literature
sonnet iv - unfortunate
sadly, tea cannot cure a hangover,
just as alcohol can't cure depression
we have found out that earl gray in dover
tastes the same in chicago, confession!
father, a confession to be made now,
that my head hurts like my soul is broken.
to drink a glass of water, raised eyebrow
of the world, of last night, words unspoken
pop an advil, give a half-hearted grin,
and then a cup of steaming tea to wash
the glitter of yesterday off my skin,
pretend again to say our minds don't slosh
lipstick stains on shot glass, on porcelain
taking meds as we wait, the world begins.
we're going to rule the world
in all of its graffiti-stained
pop-art, gun-filled
guitar-smashing, saintly
cancer-inducing glory
because the city lights,
they're all the same in
rome
paris
london
we pledge our names with
one night stands,
broken glass
and slashed tires-
moscow
new york
kiev
dolce, bella morte! we're all the same
luscious, as we fight our battles like any,
any true armani-hot-topic soldier
beijing
berlin
tokyo-
all the scars and ammunition,
smudged make-up and strappy shoes
our brief lives under that spotlight
we'll go out with a bang, an explosion
because we're the young and fabulous-
and chipped na
cardboard boxes and
obtuse metaphors.
that's what we seem to be.
our gorgeous neon skeletons,
calcium and carbohydrates and marrow
to the very core,
we drip color
shine a million shades of rainbow-
faceted, facetious like diamonds,
i suppose, full of
wheat thins and artificial flavoring
somehow, we're perfect
and we're so good at this,
at settling ourselves down with
our pretty-ugly-big-little average mates
in a beautiful little-big cardboard box
and we self-medicated little fools,
angels that we may be, to say love,
i think we manage just fine.
i. coughing, salt water stinging our knees and our eyes. it burns our mouths, too, as we choke happily along, splashing in the water as sand collects in our swimsuits. we've never been more euphoric as we lay side by side, joking, letting the sun hit our skin as we bake and freeze as the wind blows and the ocean roars.
ii. flushes of dark red color my cheekbones as i duck my head. you're embarrassed, too, because your best friend is a girl and of course we're in love, how couldn't we be? that heart shaped piece of paper just says it and we are just friends, only friends. no, i didn't write that note, but we loved us, age eight.
iii. the ai
sunny days and shining smiles
full of creaking wood as the boat slaps the ocean
and we're sliding across the water
slip sliding like toddlers in mud
except this is so much more gorgeous,
so much grander than life on the land,
and maybe we'll travel to spicy, colorful asia
or find ourselves in rainy england, where
this business of cloth sails and swords began,
just to warm up with a heavy mug of tea
and then off to the old new world
take the trade winds like those vikings thousands of years
ago did, regal and proud as we laugh
and then we cut through the waters,
our voyage to the crimson-splashed cold shine
of the horizon, of the north star,
i love you like i love sitting in the little café near my house, holding my peppermint mocha as it burns my fingers tenderly, staring out of the window dreamily to see the rushing cars, the parking lot, as the radio plays some song that i vaguely recognize and the girl behind the counter sways as her red fingernails polish the worn wood some more, and nothing, nothing can stop me then, from flying away and just letting my fingertips brush over your cheekbones and then, maybe, just maybe, as if nothing had happened, our lips can brush again and we'll drown in peppermint-scented, inky bliss.
i know that somewhere in your head, somewhere in that brain of yours, engraved in tissue, you think you love me.
did you know that the brain-
did you know that the brain, its tissue is the consistency of toothpaste?
every morning, get up and brush your teeth and think about me a little, don't you?
i don't think it's fair to me.
do you love me? maybe. i know you're attracted to me and i thought i was attracted to you-
i thought i was attracted to you, at least, for a while.
how rarely does it ever work out that simple. it's not because i don't like you, i mean, you were my best friend and as i said in my journal once "we took it a step