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Queen of Hearts
The first face I saw,
smoky and bright eyed.
A delicate haze, discrete.
A cupped hand and whispering,
shaking nerves.
Learning and cigarette lit watching. Drag.
There is kissing and breath
but instead I taste drugs, sunny and smoldering
and there is laughter with true and full
lung breaths weaving through every synapse.
The room we painted together. Peeling
in a midmonth fog.
Locked in our yellow room there are gripping hands
of wiery hangers where fur coats suspend in folds, forgotten.
Inside, it’s all a perfect reverie of cityscapes and acid green,
Connor and other boys, soft silk fibers and sea song.
Normal
knocks.
Dreaded conformity, shaking loose.
You are not like my king,
instead you wish for your own
and you covet the crown, passed through the generations.
Forget about Dad.
You are a royal ghost,
You are a queen my darling,
my January boy.
In glassy-eyed elegance there is love.
The love of best friends pretending.
The first face I saw,
smoky and bright eyed.
A delicate haze, discrete.
A cupped hand and whispering,
shaking nerves.
Learning and cigarette lit watching. Drag.
There is kissing and breath
but instead I taste drugs, sunny and smoldering
and there is laughter with true and full
lung breaths weaving through every synapse.
The room we painted together. Peeling
in a midmonth fog.
Locked in our yellow room there are gripping hands
of wiery hangers where fur coats suspend in folds, forgotten.
Inside, it’s all a perfect reverie of cityscapes and acid green,
Connor and other boys, soft silk fibers and sea song.
Normal
knocks.
Dreaded conformity, shaking loose.
You are not like my king,
instead you wish for your own
and you covet the crown, passed through the generations.
Forget about Dad.
You are a royal ghost,
You are a queen my darling,
my January boy.
In glassy-eyed elegance there is love.
The love of best friends pretending.
Jack of Hearts
Summertime smog
And dry, dead grass itch.
Insistent obligation,
through the phone the mail
and your looks.
Your ostentatious words
will never make me forget,
how she ruined Dali
with her awful tattooed wrist.
Pale plagiarism,
sickly, the moon, lunar. Rising.
Pushing and the daily grind.
“Aloof”
like I should feel ashamed.
But you understand what
it means to be living in songs
and waiting for
the needle in the hay,
that
is what I miss.
Summertime smog
And dry, dead grass itch.
Insistent obligation,
through the phone the mail
and your looks.
Your ostentatious words
will never make me forget,
how she ruined Dali
with her awful tattooed wrist.
Pale plagiarism,
sickly, the moon, lunar. Rising.
Pushing and the daily grind.
“Aloof”
like I should feel ashamed.
But you understand what
it means to be living in songs
and waiting for
the needle in the hay,
that
is what I miss.