Here are my lovely bones

Here are my lovely bones to do with what you will.
Suppose you want to build a home.
You will find fine insulation in my marrow,
take that.
If you should need gleaming cufflinks for a tasteful evening,
I'm sure the polished knobs,
the part where the bone fits in the socket,
will look wonderful cast in sterling.
If you wish to understand the human form
feel free to remove and rearrange me as you please,
i wish to be part of your education.

Fashion me in your image.
Maybe if I let you have my bones,
if i let you have the blood and the marrow,
the tissue and the membrane,
the cell.
Then maybe you would love the scientific me.
I would leave out my brain though.
That we can preserve in a jar labeled "abnormal".
I hope you acknowledge the Frankenstein reference.
Not the cartoon one though,
we only live in black and white you and I.

The monster and I,
we're close you could say.
We have both been electrified by your potency.
Of language
of love
of ridicule.
You define us similarly.
Arrogant,
stupid,
entitled to nothing at all.

I am the monster of your design.
Is it wonderful to see your sketch come to life?
If I am not the terror you originally interpreted
do not fret.
You put the staples in my skull and can take them out in due time.
You can retrieve my skeleton and start over.
Here are my lovely bones, do with them what you will.

Whimsy!

I am the viscous sap.
My mouth is not beautiful.
It is profane and insane and completely absurd-
I know no other technique.

In the harsh light of twinkling fluorescent bulbs
I live monstrous,
a walking contradiction.
Au contraire as you are fair,
let me run watercolor through your feline eyes.
I ramble…

I am in arms with the hippos that were boiled in their tanks
on Saturday night when your mother sat at home
drinking pinot,
and you.
sat on the hood of my car
drinking moonshine.
I identify with the hissing wires of the broken toaster oven
singing an old nineties tune.
Because I am:
stupid crazy,
imprudently fanatical,
whimsy!

I do not have the time to let my tongue
saunter around fancy syllables.
I would much rather you grab your most exquisite butcher knife
and expose the marrow.
If we were tied by words,
words only visually received,
if we were deaf:
I would take better care of you.

Maybe if you would see with your eyes
instead of hear with your little fleshy trumpets
That I am;
stupid crazy
imprudently fanatical,
Whimsy!
You would find me dashing?

Or maybe the shit would hit the fan.

i don't know

You never think about what you've done to my heart
you only think about what you've won.
You only think in the tiniest moments
and don't understand when they don't string together.

I don't know if i can love you.
and i don't know
if I'm strong enough not to.

You never think about the fingerprints that you leave on my face
you only think about getting up all the dust.
You don't think you leave any evidence
but all goes to trial in the end, don't you see.

I don't know if i can love you.
and i don't know
if I'm strong enough not to.

Do you really love to hate me as much as you say,
then my can't you call me out by my name.
I've been listening up,
I've been listening up for the longest of times.
And I think you just hate to want me.
Don't be self righteous you wont get any further than me
in this whole damn world.

I don't know if i can love you.
and i don't know
if i'm strong enough not to.

oh i don't, i don't know.
i don't know.

That song that has lines from that poem

Closed my eyes poked a pin in the map
and my headed land square in your lap.
In this pretty little how town
I've been drunk since the moment your lips touched my mouth.

I laughed your joy and I cried your grief,
in this little be where we used to fall asleep.
I observed the stubble on the ceiling tiles
and told you they're not as cracked as you an me.

All by all and deep by deep
dancing on the hood of your car I was something to see.
We watched the balloon man's muses fall
said it was sad that nobody loved him at all.

I laughed your joy and I cried your grief,
in this little be where we used to fall asleep.
I observed the stubble on the ceiling tiles
and told you they're not as cracked as you an me.

Children forget to remember
so I guess I'm as old as forever
becuase there's never any growing up with us two.
And you're,
my most beautiful adieu.

I'm still laughing your joy and crying your grief,
while your in someone else's bed falling asleep.
I observe the stubble on the ceiling tiles and say
they're not as cracked as you an me.

Lemon Zest

You were warm and golden in those years before the aught,
when all we knew of each other fit inside our lunchboxes.
You were blurry
but I may have seen you clearly once or twice when I tore myself away from paper dolls and willow branches for wings.

After my hair had been stripped of it’s gold,
I caught you in your cell with ether at your lips.
For once and for then we found each other quite stunning-
with your scars glowing pearly white.
We knew a thing called misery you and I,
You are my sister in the matter of veins.
There was never suspicion only bright lemon zest,
and despite the acidic residue on our tongues we never minded the flavor.

But I won’t forget the taste you get from licking metal off of bathroom tile.
It muddled my head when I should have been more concerned
with your stitches and staples.
Up down up down up down.
That’s the beat the needle made as I put you back together.
It mingled with the ba- boom of your heart
to make a kind of marching drum,
a death march.

I’d like to think I sewed on a few pretty buttons that night,
keeping guard over you.
Watching your magnetic fingers.

A little before this time last year I was rubber.
You craved architecture of a more gothic nature,
a building with many nooks for you to hide away the old newspaper clippings and record players.
None of my records were the melody you wanted but maybe this last verse will be sufficiently communicative.
You are poison, you are wine, you are my most beautiful adieu.
My scars are freshly healed in your honor and the glow-
brighter than ever,
a shrine to your great work on my heart.

Sister, if some day you return to the corporeal,
I’ll be sleeping on the cracked green tennis court.
Wrapped in the old pink afghan I’ll dream of songs about getting higher.
Come find me.
Pass me your pipe.
I’d love to take a swig of the air you’ve been breathing for the past several centuries.

When Push Met Mortar

I’ll tell you a tale in fragrant time of my illustrious decree,
how when push met mortar the beams beneath responded with cackling cracks.
When the anthem fell just short of tune with melancholy unforeseen,
it glimmered with emerald flecks ingrained at my feet where it convened.

I will not hold you at fault sir for I’m sure it was in best interest,
that you called upon your fellow dons to lay my love to rest.
Aye! You and those fellows cry, so brilliant in your resolve,
To tear down the gothic columns of lime that were built to meet the call.

I’ll write your bidding in permanent ink with my tattooed left hand,
but yet be warned I’ve never been one of true ambidexterity.
In stillness I’ll reiterate the lines pronouncing each holy phrase,
while worshipping the saint in my mind- the Lord of calamity.

Leviticus also said no haircuts and I guess you're skipping that one.

Stay humble to your repetition, your lines they are fragrantly brief. I won't deny my selfishness in the matter but frankly I see it as a necessity. You are always on the tip of my tongue. Salty and bitter your taste is a riddle. Ill defined is common place but ill received is a commodity. That little revelation itself is a commodity. It defies what we found so resolute does it not? In some ways the best thing to ever happen to you is your most pious regret, but Leviticus also said no haircuts and I guess you're skipping that one. Your measure is lewd and calloused, sunburnt from your treads upon the clay. You're meticulous in covering every crack, letting your foot rest on each on just long enough that the rubber from the bottom of your sneakers melts to cover the crevice. You leave a mess behind but the way you see it, you've changed it and your touch is gold so it's better than it was. But what about your touch to me? We both know it was with much more than a shoe, but I doubt you'll confess that to God. I know what you want me to. Every word you write has a projection, don't deny it. We're both guilty. Despite what you may believe you have sinned with furrowed brow and clenched eyes, in hopes that if you do it fast and dirty you will leave no one with a choice. All your recklessness does is leave you with the choice. I know you will choose yourself and so does God, so what's the point of even telling him? You don't love me but you always will and he sure as hell knows that too.

December playlist

Not One, But Two- Now, Now Every Children
Delicate- Damien Rice
Motivation- Sheryl Crow
Never Think- Rob Pattinson (i know i know. but he's a gifted musician)
Cosmos and Damien- Devendra Banhart
Imitosis- Andrew Bird
Falling Awake- Gary Jules
To Build a Home- The Cinematic Orchaestra
The Happy Birthday Song- Andrew Bird
Lover- Devendra Banhart
Save It for Later- Five Times August
Recommendation- Little Dragon
He Doesn't Know Why- Fleet Foxes
Obsolete- MuteMath