Tuesday, January 19, 2010

'all of the pageantry, none of the guilt'

when you're gone, this place,
it's a fucking church. silent
and slightly scary.

piles of socks, folded
like hands in prayer, candles
lit in observance

of our nightly vice,
surfaces immaculate,
scoured, fit for gods.

alone, it's empty
pageantry, in need of our
choirs of laughter

ringing with blood and
wine and noise to flush some life
into this stillness.


east side bride said...

why don't you just watch 7 HOURS OF REALITY TV like the rest of us do when our person is out of town? sheesh.

laughtrack said...

hoosh. i'm digging this pining. sending you a small hand painted portrait in front of which you can burn devotionals, and pack away into the breast pocket of your jacket.

17 beats. said...

and for you, my love, a single lock of my hair for you to brush on your fingers and wrist, for to remember the gentle ways that i touch you each day.

bah! haha!

but seriously, i am pretty much a directionless mess without you. my only successful endeavors today involved dim sum, taffy, taylor series, and putting a puppy dog into a bath tub. not all at once, unfortunately.

blue roses said...

if i had a lover, i would want his teeth in a cage around my neck, let him dig his tongue-tip into bloodied sockets and taste only me, caress the emptiness and realize he could waste no charms or gallantry on any other woman.