Drunk Dreams

 

Star swarm
Relative anxiety
Pretending to pretend to
not care anymore
Instead we laugh, drink
and dine our nights
away in glitter splendor
and wine, half-drunk
is not really drunken
unless you can smell it on your pores

Discursive thought pattern
in a well of smoke
It tells you to shut up
and then it laughs at you for thinking
thoughts about yourself
and you think you’re surely crazy
so you think and drink some more.

Handle with care.
Do you see how you’ve fallen?
It’s in just such a way
that meditating on starlight is
not enough for our eyes tonight

Kiss me and make me feel the stars again.

Why can’t I get you out of my head
when you’ve gotten so out of my life
that I can’t remember if yesterday was a year ago or today
And every time I think of stars
I think of you and the wine
and you’ve ruined time for me

Where do you go when you’re dead but living?
What do ghosts smell like?
Apothic red and haunting moonlight
My drunk dreams are cheaper than you

I’d drink from your cup any day,
anytime, and never all at once.

What the fuck was I talking about when I accidentally told you I love you?
Accidentally on purpose I decided you were my tomorrow
and hung my wedding dress on the cobweb cabinet shelf of my mind
and you
Decided I was yesterday
and never, all at once
You’re always to me
Always, always

and I can smell you on my pores.

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Untitled IV

I am humbled in the presence of books.

Walking down aisles of literature,
suddenly conscious
of every ligament in my body,
blood moving through veins.

Hand lifts delicately,
leaning on air –
I dare not touch a word without proper reverence,
respect.

Remember confrontation
with man whispering at heart,
the kind whose thoughts I sipped slowly,
savored
like wine I didn’t want to leave my cup –

only these books can’t hurt me.

These books can’t pretend to be truth when they lie.

Their words aren’t tailored to get me to read by candlelight in my bed
unless by my own choice.

These books fall asleep on my chest
and are still there when I wake up in the morning.

So maybe
I am stunned by the sensation when my surroundings
are old thoughts on pages
calling out to me to do with them as I please –
The decision,
now in my hands.

I fear becoming what I fear –

Open,
bare,
discarded,
alone
on worn, splintered shelf,
I will not leave you –
I promise.

EJZ 05.20.2015