i.
i used to hate it when you said
its fine.
cause i always wanted to be more than that.
but now i hate it when you say
its perfect.
cause i know that means
it doesnt matter to you.
how can perfection be such a letdown?
how can you not care?
ii.
if i had an apology for every time you lied to me
maybe we wouldnt be here.
im sure you agree.
we wouldnt be stuck in this limbo
of awkward conversations and
broken-off sentences.
this cliché is getting to me:
small town boy lost in the big city.
dont you agree?
iii.
i hate how i can
the smoke curls in the air, coming from her smudged red lips. it's exciting.
"i don't love you," she tells him as she exhales another puff of cigarette smoke.
"i need another one," is his only reply. it's all he cares about, she thinks. she passes him another tiny stress reliever and lights it for him, his own smoke curling above their guilty heads.
and that's all they'll ever be. guilty, guilty, guilty.
----
it's december. frost crusts at the windows, coating almost anything in sight. it's strange to think that this is some people's paradise. it was bitter and reminded her of herself too much. which m
we're a combination
an auspicious pair
a mixture, a blend,
we're together as one.
separation is good for the soul;
it helps our realization that we
are actually our own person.
but it's a painful break.
connection through wiring;
cut the wire, electricity snapped
in two: you get a shortage, a power out;
an abyss of darkness.
suck me in, swallow me up--
make me whole again.
i need
the hidden nuances,
the mink-furred, dark-eyed subtleties
the sparkling circuitry
the simple secrecy
of working in a duet:
we may not sing, but we dance to the moon's shining smile.
we are all one, but we are all s e p a r a t e
we put ours
How Are The Cats? by duckbilledplatitudes, literature
Literature
How Are The Cats?
How are the cats? they say to me
In the space where How are the kids? should be
As though compelled to obey social pleasantry
But confounded how to categorise me
When I'm clearly such an anomaly?
Not a mum, not a career girl
What else is there for a woman to be?
So I see them thinking.
Time after time I see people fall
At the how-are-the-kids fence
Like it's the barren elephant in a sterile living room
My supposed heartbreak, a 'fact' that must never be mentioned
A woman my age without children?
Why, it can only mean one thing
Especially when you look at the family history,
They whisper soundlessly, pityingly, thinking I
Tequila, miniatures, compliments of KLM.
It's half a dozen shots; maybe enough
to let me clean out your desk today.
I open the drawer a crack, then wider.
That meddling slut Pandora's been here.
She's stuffed it full of arguments
and stale conversation, leaking trouble,
oozing bad karma.
Balloons come flying out, sputtering,
sucking up to the ceiling, helium-high.
They speak in absurdities and riddles,
mad on myth and inert gas.
But I'm so free, smoking Black Devils,
crumpled pack, under a map of Boston;
empty matchbook, The Frog and Peach;
my number, in your drunken scrawl.
I aim lungfuls of Dutch smoke upwar