20110623, tumblr piece

I jump I hump I jump

a low altitude earth orbit

the acceleration of gravity

Kate Moss’ shiny hair gives away her expression to the wind

A chill on the back of her neck

Frumpy goosebumpy

Mountainous Max humbly glows 

Surrounded by the cannon crashes

Venus gets knocked out of orbit in a leopard bra holding a blue bong

the shy and shining shadow silhouette of an unidentifiable young man

I spy an Einstein eye sty 

Bacteria grows where flower petals fall

She’s like a tattooed merry go round in the water

All lit up and frantically yelling, giggling, at peace, at part

The future at a different time is grasping, clasping, rasping for this moment

What a hopeless romantic the past is

Ironic ivory and mudded mahogany 

A headdress holds all of her thoughts under 

Secreted secrets

Dazzling down, down town

The halo hair of Andy Warhol boxed in a crossed coffin

For no one to stare or shoot at any longer

Until the next one comes along

And makes a damn mockery of your picnic shorts and bare back and outstretched abs

Calmly clenched fists

Uptight sweater knits

The trees have holes in them that embody your body whole

He’s an interesting man, that oak tree

A tiger in a kitten’s body

Stretching itself thin and weary, wirey, fiery

Frayed finger foreskin, delightfully dilapidated 

The pattern his hands make remind me of things I speak too often about

If a ball bounces six times how far does it travel vertically?

Well this depends… if it’s in the park it travels more trees and less assholes

If an obnoxious kid dismisses this ball, how am I supposed to care about something he doesn’t care about himself?

But I think I do care

Its only fitting

Like the bottom of a tea cup and the plates that were made to unite with it in coffee cuddles

His mouth is shaped as the sound of a whistle

The message is the messenger

Many manly masculine leaves frenzy feminine a bout de soufflé

A sacred smirker, with an arm muscle the size of the dove in his right hand and a 40oz in his left

Weird pant pockets 

His curls are whisps of smoke, disintegrating in the air of broken brokeh

Bloody buddy holly, you are drunk

But a beautiful insomniac that can’t stop snaking and shaking

Maybe its that pipe dream in search of a ripe lean

Fear fantasy

Her cheekbones show most when she’s left speechless

Hiding from whoever, however in fetal position

Wishing she was another man’s woman

One that doesn’t exist

If she were water her waves would crash hard and her ripples would slash cuts in the reflections of those that look into her, even if just on the surface

Even if just for a split second

And she has no space in between her legs

When I look at where her bum meets her thigh I can’t see the other side

Maybe she’s a virgin

Rioting rebellion

Without a damn cause

Except to give people the middle finger

His smoked out hands rest at the indent of her lined shirt

it looks like loose leaf

She looks sad

she was happy once

The kind of happy that wrinkles like to exploit

And he just stares and wonders and shrugs

And her face gets reorganized and pushed and pulled 

And now her smile is a monotone malfunction man

Who likes heels and suits and little girls

Desaturation defines her

Up and away into slender smoke she goes

He ships her off to America as a prized posession 

Like Lady Liberty

Trash and treasure

A sandy spectacle

The infinitely little men walking across a cracking bridge mirror the infinitely great cloaked crooks watching from the forest

Not good enough to love, she thinks

So her route is the wind

And glances from people whose face remains unseen yet unforgiving

As if people were their shadows

Or their bodies

Or sketches of their bodies lying lifeless on hovering tree stumps

A tire floats by

She thought she could taste her daughters youth in his kiss

A dull enlightenment

He builds castles in the sky on crappy clouds that aren’t really there

And claims he’s happy, the way he is – blind, tortured soul

It always comes back around and down to you, doesn’t it?

Who you seem to be, who you want to be, who your friends are and how flash makes your dangling body look in front of Terry Richardson’s segregating lens

Offering yourself to The Look Now

I still want to punch you in the face when I look at you across the dinner table

Or lovingly bite your smitten cheek

Your belly button is the big black hole enveloping all the starstuff

You can laugh at this, but I’m serious

Feathers grow out of your back

And then suffer from growth stunts because you’re tired and distressed and angry all the time

And frustrated and broke and doing your best

You are doing your best

Are you doing your best?

Well what does that mean when you stare at me with raccoon eyes?

Racking thighs rocking and rolling moon tribes

You and your heartbreaking napkins

Funny freckles, please don’t look at me that way

Please don’t look at me

If she can’t live in the curve of his smile she would rather be a super slut

With the mirage of twin towering over her predecessors 

Onlookers need binoculars, proper oculars

a tourist attraction for the finest suit and ties, leather boot lies

until someone knocks her down and she wonders why

as if she wasn’t a vulnerable onlooker the entire time