“You know a hell lot about the French Revolution don’t you?”
In hindsight, that’s an absurd thing to say to a person you’re speaking to for the first time-
but absurdity is home turf, and hindsight is rum soaked nearly not there regret.
It’s been nine months since then,
and the Romantics have given way to Bob Dylan in the classroom.
But Ramona still finds it hard to accept the fact that
Everything passes, everything changes.
And this, whatever we’ve got going on-
Will move through time in crackpot ways..
You’ve been a tyranny on my senses in any case.
I’ve stood closer to fires,
but the heat has been colder.
I’ve touched softer mouths,
but they haven’t had the same habit of making words sound like all my warmest memories held in an airtight jar.
I don’t think there was ever a chance that this would turn out any differently.
I’m a scavenger of moments to write poems about,
and you, are my lucky day.
Eyes have a knack for ousting secrets that find body under the skin.
Eyes can tell how long someone’s been up the previous night,
Eyes can tell the difference between lust and lust.
Eyes know what the heart’s been up to, all through the winter months,
Feigning hibernation,
but plotting holocausts for neighbouring hearts.
My eyes have travelled across the contours of our carcasses-
the carcasses of who we were before we gave up a quarter of our fears
and settled for a half way home, a trick of the light.
Affection is a shape-shifter
that we’ve been taught to perceive as recommended homecoming.
Affection looks like you right now- your hands, your hair.
The way Chandrabindu proved their worth as oracles
and John Mayer tells it like it is.
The earth has music for those who listen- yours and mine overlap at the edge of desire,
the pulse of unbecoming.
Forever is overrated-
an imagined solution to the problems
of kinetic affection.
The horizontal monotony of eternity
cannot conceive of the vertical spontaneity
of split second infinity.
In theory, I’m a train wreck
In practice- just a child in the sand by the sea.
Stranger tides have washed over me,
But when we walk arm in arm,
the salt tastes like sugar on my tongue.
Truth is, I’m terribly afraid.
My poems end up as beauty pageants for words
Because I’m afraid of the plainest.
Promises starve in my throat- they become
Midnight snack for the universe.
But falling into you feels like the irregular unrealities
I regularly outrun.
See, I’m not in love with you.
But that just might be the best part.
In hindsight, that’s an absurd thing to say to a person you’re speaking to for the first time-
but absurdity is home turf, and hindsight is rum soaked nearly not there regret.
It’s been nine months since then,
and the Romantics have given way to Bob Dylan in the classroom.
But Ramona still finds it hard to accept the fact that
Everything passes, everything changes.
And this, whatever we’ve got going on-
Will move through time in crackpot ways..
You’ve been a tyranny on my senses in any case.
I’ve stood closer to fires,
but the heat has been colder.
I’ve touched softer mouths,
but they haven’t had the same habit of making words sound like all my warmest memories held in an airtight jar.
I don’t think there was ever a chance that this would turn out any differently.
I’m a scavenger of moments to write poems about,
and you, are my lucky day.
Eyes have a knack for ousting secrets that find body under the skin.
Eyes can tell how long someone’s been up the previous night,
Eyes can tell the difference between lust and lust.
Eyes know what the heart’s been up to, all through the winter months,
Feigning hibernation,
but plotting holocausts for neighbouring hearts.
My eyes have travelled across the contours of our carcasses-
the carcasses of who we were before we gave up a quarter of our fears
and settled for a half way home, a trick of the light.
Affection is a shape-shifter
that we’ve been taught to perceive as recommended homecoming.
Affection looks like you right now- your hands, your hair.
The way Chandrabindu proved their worth as oracles
and John Mayer tells it like it is.
The earth has music for those who listen- yours and mine overlap at the edge of desire,
the pulse of unbecoming.
Forever is overrated-
an imagined solution to the problems
of kinetic affection.
The horizontal monotony of eternity
cannot conceive of the vertical spontaneity
of split second infinity.
In theory, I’m a train wreck
In practice- just a child in the sand by the sea.
Stranger tides have washed over me,
But when we walk arm in arm,
the salt tastes like sugar on my tongue.
Truth is, I’m terribly afraid.
My poems end up as beauty pageants for words
Because I’m afraid of the plainest.
Promises starve in my throat- they become
Midnight snack for the universe.
But falling into you feels like the irregular unrealities
I regularly outrun.
See, I’m not in love with you.
But that just might be the best part.