musical chairs.

june 73, 2009.

hey sweetheart.  love the way you
strum your starstrings with motivation.

did you staple your skin pores shut and
substitute licorice for hair?  it looks
great on you, with that poisonous
sense of ambition of yours. me,
i trace stars on to my scalp with
the sounds of chromatic scales,
a piano with more secrets than
fingers and toes to count.

[being the prettiest of all melodies just
isn`t my thing.]

we should run out of our murals
sometime, like there`s nothing for us
here, like the chorus singers are actually
lies in disguise, because
we don`t know any better than
to join this riot and wear fire
around our lungs, burning us from
the inside out, and don`t worry
it won`t hurt a bit!

i`ll meet you where the clouds
shake the moonlight from our
identities at half past fucked-up,
but i`m scared of the day when
bass drums beat faster than
our smirks.

and make sure you don`t get lost
on the way and don`t forget
where you came from because
one day, the streetlamps will
turn into monsters, pushing
your oxygen back into your
nothing, and there is no remedy
for feet, sliced deeply and
endlessly by the wrong path,

sweetheart.