Poetry: She called me Unbalenced, I called her Cute

We have the same conversation every other day

and face the world fewer times than that.

Our life together is my closed-eyed fantasy,

windowless tans radiate off the fluorescent bulbs

as the future lies in hovering clouds of smoke

above our heads, concealing the truth.

The hazy past drifts off with

the only memories worth keeping.

But we can always create new ones.

Love and paranoia have alot in common,

they fill your mind with impossible questions and keep you awake at night.

Keeping you conscious to relish those not so awkward silences

as she rests her head across your bony shoulder

and you wonder, How could i be so lucky?

Turning you to wonder how to keep her happy.

and how to keep yourself blindly sane.

I am no where

near the supreme

proven again and again

that i am unclean,

my motives may seem

obscene...

but being with you

is the closest thing

i have to touching god.

French kissing is best done

after a shotgun.

True conversations

start with coughing,

true lust always

ends sloppily with smiles.

We live; live, if you could call it that, barely breathing

on my apartment floor locked beneath such sweet

Flesh-lined coffins

waiting for the freedom to dig our own graves...

waiting for the tombstone to read—

cest la vie, love is a wonderful thing.

(From the collection Delirium, Delirium.)