As he looks down at his blood-laced spit
He thinks about heartbreak,
feeling the uncomfortable pain
that, in his extensive life experience,
He’s learned doesn’t come from the heart, at all.
The heart is simply a mechanism that
keeps the blood pumping, with no appreciable
connection to “love” and “feelings”.
It’s his stomach that’s really tuned in.
From sickly to sleep, growling undercurrents of acid
and lined paper are concealed beneath the soft brick of
where cold words slide into his gut and
sit, refusing to melt.
He thinks about his decisions and how
they haven’t been so great, lately.
How most of them are made on a barstool downtown,
where last year, a familiar villain
crept into the edges of his vision.
Between waves of smoke and polluted air
sat a familiar voice he hasn’t heard in 15 years
and can’t help but wonder where its been.
A man that has only given him
Good athletic genes and
20 siblings he wouldn’t know
if they slapped him in the face.
They say the sting of your father leaving you
but it hasn’t, and the sting turned into flying fists
and unfortunately those words
had sharpened edges
that still wont sit well in his stomach
or dissolve fully.
It’s an abysmal high, this regular life,
And it’s nothing like the movies.
Before he leaves, he tips the bartender,
wondering if she’ll blow it on
blunts and booze
just like anyone else in this town would.
I look at him, my feet dangling
from the stone wall they hung from
as his feet rested comfortably on the ground.
Mythical attributes hang like false medals
pinned to his bare and bloody chest.
Cocaine residues dry up his beaten nose
as his hands touch his thin skin, and he tries
to remember his youthful desires
As he looks down at his blood-laced spit.
5 o’clock smells like the weeping and
moaning and gnashing of teeth.
Like crimson heels and
Tearing through closets to appear worthy of sin.
I’m not religious, but at a young age
my mother taught me right from wrong.
I’ve since learned that the forbidden apple
Leaks with lust
and my mouth waters for it.
Some say that the fiend
Is the dark made flesh,
But perchance it doesn’t take
A breathing form, at all.
Maybe it’s just the dark that
We allow into our flesh.
The greatest pact between human and Fiend
Is that of Faustus,
but there are many others
And some are barely remembered.
My sin? Tequila.
We put on our pearls and
Leave for the taxi that waits outside.
The bouncer waves by our familiar faces
As we head straight to the seats near the pool table.
I’m already drunk but
Lauren orders tequila.
Perhaps the real sin would be
Turning down a free shot.
As I rub salt into the wounds on my cracked winter hands,
The devils perfume ascends from
My glass to my nose,
Causing me to look at Lauren like I’ve
Already sucked on the bitter lemon wedge
That still rests between my fingers.
Lemon nectars pour down
Into my already salted wounds
And remind me of the clock and
How it’s still ticking.
Before I can comprehend the thoughts that
May or may not be in my head,
My mouth salivates from the dissatisfaction
Of salt on my tongue.
The rest comes quick:
We know the routine because we’ve danced
with this devil so many times.
Too many times.
How many times?
I awaken to battered kneecaps and
Greasy homefries that fill my plate.
Everything smells like tequila.
Everything smells like mystery bruises,
Empty wallets, and realizations that
I should have listened to my mother.
That stonewashed mistakes are actions
And actions are yours whether you
Recall them or not.
For blacking out doesn’t eradicate anything.
It conceals it.
And indeed, the greatest trick the Devil
Ever pulled was convincing the world
He does not exist.
How to make a cupcake bouquet - brilliant gift idea
At - http://www.52kitchenadventures.com/2012/04/29/how-to-make-a-cupcake-bouquet/
every train should be like this