Arts and/or Crafts
Pause these impeding memories.
Your ski mask is all wrong!
Misshaped to the slender curves of your face.
Must you wear magenta eyeliner with your turquoise jeans?
My dear you stand out like a tigers spots.
Be who you be when your ready for me.
Paintings fall off the wall.
Your sack is empty expect for your tricks so violent and
steady.
A museum so full of art, tragic and dull,
Translucent and mundane.
Yet beautiful and plain.
Calendars that count the days of the heart beat of the human
spirit.
Tick tock
If I had a rock I’d smash your weary exterior.
Don’t tell me you don’t care!
I saw you standing there.
Dazed and glazed from your subsistence abused, raincoat, caring
case.
Your coat carries more than your baggage.
Condense your thoughts into emotions and emotions into
sounds.
The police sirens will never drowned out who you really are.
A woman that never sleeps, and dreams of more than she can
ever be.
If I could have one wish, it would be that I would be the
tiny fetter, in the seams of thread that drink of your face, as your ski mask
tugs at your skin.
You museum art thief!, I love the shady side of your life, I
love to drive your car that gets away once in awhile.
I do all this, to be by your side as you smile at the clanging of the
paintings, that hide in your bag of hopeless canvas.
Your hair cut short to cover your hazel eyes. The cyanide
pill you keep under your dash, for a taste of the wild side.
The fear that you would be caught unprepared, as your tights
tightly fold under your leaden exterior.
I am ready for the speed of your life, as we flee the scene
with ready-made Picasso ’s underneath ours arms.
Why do you push away with such disgust, as I nuzzle up to
you as you shiver from the rain that soaks your bones and causes your eyes
liner to run upon your cheeks?
Do you not see that you were meant for me? Your dragon
scales and wolfs bane teeth do not scare me.
My skin is tougher then a tin can full of mystery.
Remember me as the one who commits felonies at your
side. Free Warhol’s “Marilyn Monroe” and
“Starry Night” by Van Gogh. Free me from
“The Persistence of Memory” your mind is like Salvador Dali’s.
You are my Leda, my Saint Anne, my Mona Lisa with a
mischievous smile. We have run through marble hallways, laid with tile, now
lets walk a mile down the streets of love.
We never had to use a gun, only sticky fingers, in sticky
gloves.
Do you keep me around for the amusement of my laugh?, or the
sound of my whisper through painted glass? Or do you truly enjoy the company of
a man who holds “your paintings” on his lap?
When the sound of the gun, takes me down, will you shed a
tear as you run?
Into the night, will you look back in fear, in regret, in
sadness at my demise?
I can’t keep on, as your arms move along the widow sills of
my aching heart!
Can anything be real in this make believe world of cat and
mouse, of scream and shout, of broken dreams and of easels that bleed!
My dear, crawl into my veins, paint a picture on my brain.
Of your ways of your refrain, of your face, feed my soul, make me whole again!
Drop me on my head, because these are my last words and
then, like your eyes upon my thighs, I AM DEAD.
(well not in the literal sense, but in the spiritual and
emotional sense which of course is much more serious and profound)
posted by Dead 2 MySelf at 1:29 AM
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