Tristan S. Arouet

Lovesongs Live from The Cloister Cafe
2001-12-10 22:30:28 (UTC)

Monday

I.

My retorical renaissance
comes to this--
We have,
what seems like,
very few flighty fifteen-minute
sessions left
to declare our
call.it.what.you.will.
Always like that.
You always seem to be like that.
A correlation of
checkerboarded checks and ballances
always just slightly
(as slight as a papercut)
leaning to the left.
Because, you see,
it could topple at any minute.
Topple tenderly, tossing
every last one of our/my vices
into that ferrocious current
below your belt
behind your back
beneath your breakable backbone

II.

We've a place
to rest.
We, meaning You,
never fully able to build that bridge.
I suppose
there's always something new
to say about that;
it's the way I always look
first thing in the morning,
their afternoon,
my tristesse all tangled
Mangled
looks like I've lost
my finesse.
Looks like there's always something
to say about that.
You never seem to look like that.
The connotation sometimes
seems to lack.




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