Kissed her ivory hips
as if I was tickling the black keys
of a piano.
They’re the odd ones
you say
but so are we.
Giggling through the howls
of a Tom Waits song as if
we’re in on it too.
After tinkering with keys
you’ve got nothing left to play.
So douse the piano in gasoline.
Flame licked legs and dripping veneer.
Snapped strings in and out of tune.
Every piano fire burns this way.
Every piano fire ends this way.
The explosion
The confusion of the fog
of the fire extinguisher.
Grit teeth and white heat.
The piano is broken,
but we’ll get another one.
We danced in perfect time
while we told our crooked lies
and smiled golden promises
between our rusted lips.
Nothing was perfect
and everything violent
in the linen landscapes
of your single cell.
=====================
I’m not sad. I just saw some sad images in my head while listening to some music.
You’d get lost
in her fractals.
Staring for hours
trying to figure out
her equation.
This was the act
of staring
in
to her eyes.
Her infinity.
Raucous noise
swinging our heads against
hour hands.
Beats and nouns against time.
Sweat drenched smiles
tasting like oceans
between our
teeth.
Rust in hand
rust on strings.
We broke our guitars.
Screaming.
These are fits.
The shrapnel was burning past our ears in fits of kinetic climax, amplified by our steel flying cage of a flying fortress. I’m pretty sure Captain Philips had lost consciousness at this point and the gunship was taking a nosedive into the winter German landscape like a cokehead looking for their last hit. Coincidentally, the co-pilot took what we thought to be our last minutes of life as a cue to snort the entirety his pillbox. Our port side gunner, Thompson, slid past me with a smiling scream “At least I’ll go out slippin and a slidin’!” He would later go on to hang out in New Orleans jazz scene with the likes of Eddie Bo writing jazz and R&B.
