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Have I become |
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bug under thumb |
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for your scented nails to glow by? |
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I need out of my shirts I think you'll find attractive. |
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On your hill perched so clandestine you rest |
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like a second term president and I go |
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destined to keep the crayon close |
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and guess until my name goes red, |
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at whose dead half-daughters |
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were denied your womb |
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on the down low. |
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At whose half-sons |
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come a lump in my throat |
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and man my fever with an army of frogs underskin. |
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and I don't want to dance with your shadow no more |
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or listen through an elephant's ear for your |
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whispers into the other. |
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My curse is the circuit that your fingers |
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rehearse on me to quell my nerves |
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and my only one is for you to king me |
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with wavecrest |
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and not stethoscope, |
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with the core, |
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not tentative as you were |
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choosing soup cans |
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from the cupboard |
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for your grade school's |
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Thanksgiving food drive, no. |
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But I'm the only one |
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pulling near clear from a melted crayon |
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under the comforter some man |
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cured your goosebumps with-- |
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I'm sick and stuck on something you |
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Every time I see a Honda Civic |
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my heart just jumps right through. |
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I do it by your nails' light |
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but nothing comes, it's true. |
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And I'm caught in a pipe |
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to smoke my own limbs off. |
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And I don't want to dance with your shadow no more |
|
or listen through an elephant's ear for your |
|
whispers into the other |
|
Another gum gut morning |
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Telephone restraint |
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He's in your bed, |
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has he taken my place? |
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Another gum gut morning |
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When i see you face-to-face |
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He's in your bed... |
