Cherub
nothing works
The chocolate is all bittersweet today. It’s no matter the context or its future, melted in a frying pan (like you, yeah, like us.)
It’s hard to think about finding love when all my energy goes into keeping your eyes wide. There’s no time to sleep, especially not at night because that’s reserved strictly for introspective bullshit. I will never equal complete in any of its many forms. It doesn’t matter what three am formula it was last night because I’ve just been missing you. Mostly what we were.
We couldn’t call it love and I still wouldn’t. It wasn’t. Libido. Sweat. Tension. Necessary. You could call it that I guess.
But not when you spit my name through my teeth with your cock buried in my ass.
"Baby," you slurred then, the dirt under your nails dissolved into the flesh of my back. "Baby, baby, baby," and I could only hope they'd get infected. You've got me wound up against the sound mixer backstage and there's a post-show snarl bubbling up from your trachea, blown out and velvet and all cigarette smoke.
Ten years is nothing anymore.
The lights were mad, making patterns that weren’t there and moving with all the grace of two broken legs. Pink, yellow, green, blue, and orange all in my eyes and it was that kind of wild that inspired the same kind in us. Maybe it was residue teenage rebellion, still fresh in my mind because that’s all I was (nineteen and hot off the streets and hot into you.) Or the coke because with it you were only brilliant. And dead all the same, but you still are. Thirty-six and you’ve fizzled out in the arms of that singsong bassist that bent you both backwards like I never could, of the mundane and you have lost your charm.
The crowd’s off the rails and they’ll stampede if they don’t get they encore they deserve. But you’ve already finished in me and you’re finished with me.
You broke it off the night you dyed your hair blonde and again when you wrote the words to your own eulogy, with birds and glass, but honey, you said it yourself.
We’re done, but we will never die, yeah, my icy valentine.
It’s hard to think about finding love when all my energy goes into keeping your eyes wide. There’s no time to sleep, especially not at night because that’s reserved strictly for introspective bullshit. I will never equal complete in any of its many forms. It doesn’t matter what three am formula it was last night because I’ve just been missing you. Mostly what we were.
We couldn’t call it love and I still wouldn’t. It wasn’t. Libido. Sweat. Tension. Necessary. You could call it that I guess.
But not when you spit my name through my teeth with your cock buried in my ass.
"Baby," you slurred then, the dirt under your nails dissolved into the flesh of my back. "Baby, baby, baby," and I could only hope they'd get infected. You've got me wound up against the sound mixer backstage and there's a post-show snarl bubbling up from your trachea, blown out and velvet and all cigarette smoke.
Ten years is nothing anymore.
The lights were mad, making patterns that weren’t there and moving with all the grace of two broken legs. Pink, yellow, green, blue, and orange all in my eyes and it was that kind of wild that inspired the same kind in us. Maybe it was residue teenage rebellion, still fresh in my mind because that’s all I was (nineteen and hot off the streets and hot into you.) Or the coke because with it you were only brilliant. And dead all the same, but you still are. Thirty-six and you’ve fizzled out in the arms of that singsong bassist that bent you both backwards like I never could, of the mundane and you have lost your charm.
The crowd’s off the rails and they’ll stampede if they don’t get they encore they deserve. But you’ve already finished in me and you’re finished with me.
You broke it off the night you dyed your hair blonde and again when you wrote the words to your own eulogy, with birds and glass, but honey, you said it yourself.
We’re done, but we will never die, yeah, my icy valentine.
♠ ♠ ♠
cranked this out thx to franks newest blog postyea yea ok