Does his laughter peel?
Did a shot ring out?
Did your heart give out?
Were those the luscious sounds?
Is that the smell of burning, petroleum-fuzed solid materials, industrious machine parts, TIRES SQUEALING OUT.
I woke in a confused equation. Dreams of my father, epic chase and spy divisions, dying, pain, loss, ampitheater rock of cavernous broken heart incisions. When you climb these stairs, don’t look up, it will shake your foundations.
And a body, delirious on summer drugs, crashes dancing through a plate glass window. Four hundred stories up, her bathing robe, under her belt, a stomach laced with scissor flicks. The shards of a tower go careening into the sky and she falls while the ribbon spins her out like a yo-yo and the equations mesmerize. Silk and satin, rippling, billow in the fall like an ocean eonically metering friction. So bright and pale and nightswept she won’t hit the ground. Just rise in gusts like plumes of dust ironically spending daydreams.
Learning to fly.
This isn’t fate. Nor a lullabye. This is the Mote in the Lord’s Eye.
While I have you, suspended in midair… I could bother to tell you how I feel.
I dreamed I was a fireman.
You introduced me to a vampire.
I thought, today. If you ever meet a one who isn’t one, hold to them tight. Because we’re all drowning in bloodlust and hung up on these equalizing needs to feed our needs and be recieved and to deceive and it’d be nice.
To meet some one, who didn’t need. To transform, into bloodsucking feeding rodent greed, in order to
Hold to them tight. Don’t let them go. Boyant lovely, rare. Drag them to the depths with us tonight.