Poets and writers drink more intensely. Smoke more intensely. Worship God more intensely. Poets and writers fuck more intensely. Poets and writers give more willingly-- spilling the alphabetical marrow of their souls out into the albino sonogram of hope that is the page, hoping some stranger whom he or she has never before met turns to his crafted syllables in time of dire need and somehow finds solace, finds laughter finds a friend.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Chasing after you with my 8-bit Nintendo sized heart, baby…
Grisly myogenic robot-headed console
shushed in yawn
Replete with DUCK HUNT AND SUPERMARIO BROS. upon purchase
A laser gun two tedious control pads
which look like something Amish women might use three
Days a month as a sanitary napkin
to sop up the spilled blood of the feminine lamb
Reset power-button winking
At you from the opposite corner of the bar
Invitation to grope joystick of the male anatomy
accelerate through the next level
In search of a thumb-print sized
Air-headed princess
who, in reality, would probably
never abandon the money-colored dragon scales
of her suitor for a poor man’s middle-age
Italian plumber like yourself
When first we met that night baby
We fit together
Like Tetris blocks
The geometric shapes of our bodies
Free-falling
Contorting like a parachuting anvil
Learning how to slip
Into the distilled
Gravity of each others flesh
Snapping chasms of whispered silence
Spaces across the windshield nothingness of a Russian plain
Dissipating all together in one townhouse sentence of joy
I chased you across neon bleeps and zaps of fairytale kingdom
Stomping on turtles-with wings oblivious mushroom
Sized creatures resembling beanie baby STD’s
Garnering points that rise and evaporate like steam
Banging the brow of my working-class forehead
Into a QUESTION mark shaped brick of reality
Hoping for a one-up mushroom, an extra life
Cursing like QBERT when I found you downtown
in the arms of another man
Wishing I could ejaculate fireballs at him
That I could battle him
crunch him
defeat him
Watch his body phase
in and out
slowmotion demise
A game over sign
Flaring inside me
Asking me If I would like to press
start back at the first level
in electronic pursuit
just to find you somehow again
Inside my chest
where my heart
Is shaped like the cement bone
8-bit Nintendo System
a dated entertainment
The box we sometimes had to unplug
and bow in front of first
blowing into its rectangular
lips several times
before inserting the cartridge
and pressing play.
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