Wednesday, April 7, 2010

clack clack clack.

you're a typewriter.
she tells you a story on your back
with red ink skin and
she has brought
you the fourth of july
in dynamite
several months early.

bottle rockets shoot across the room
but she doesn't understand
although that's hardly fair to ask:
since you don't understand yourself.

you pass a mirror and catch your own eye
there's something there, isn't there,
hiding behind blues and beards

what are you hiding in there?

now is not the time for questions.
find yourself some answers first
and then see which match up to which.

because until then
it's going to be nothing but stories.
but you like stories, don't you.

so wrap yourself up in a tale.
close your eyes and fall to sleep in it.
use it as a parachute as you leap from the cliffs
and allow it to slow your fall.

now:
blow out your candle.
lock the door.
crawl inside the bed.

kiss your pretty face goodnight.

1 comment:

France is said...

i absolutely love this.