Shallow children giving birth to shallower kin,
freshly conceived, all asking to be born when
noisy gumbo from offenders and defenders
was unearthed by generational pretenders.
No one minds if you yearn for brick cellphones,
boys from across the pond that piss and moan,
or flags of your region hurled upon dirt.
Nineteen ninety-four called, and out it blurted,
"Must you channel my exaggerated discontent?”,
we get it, you hate the fat and the malnourished,
the cockney in every American discouraged,
gelled up Brits, lined up and flourished.
Give every single sanitation worker a raise
for he spends all night and day mopping away
at the purging of unimpressed intestines,
sidewalks coated in purged investments
of wasted time, of wanton paint-lacking mimes.
The practicing disciples of halting oxygen
adorn in fake dirt, idolizing the grimly confident,
Uncloak my beaten thoughts of it’s leather jacket,
sew up holes in the jeans my generation cohabits,
I have finished praising one decade for a lifetime,
ceasing an untimely serenade of bittersweet chimes.
The mailman sprinkled brown glitter
all over postage I sent you.
Inside lay scattered callouses
off my fingers to show you
each attempt to wrangle
how to play your father’s guitar
well enough for my mother’s birthday.
I asked if you could orchestrate
harmonies I had put words to,
movements for curling toes,
rhythms for a broken beat-down,
sobbing with the thrashing of fish skin.
On sun-filled noon, we sat cross-legged,
sheltered in the Canadian wilderness.
We rebel, attired in dark jeans
and waterproof Casio watches.
Carving out the musical notes
of the hum in my throat
that stirs whenever you visit,
with pillow-worn wisps of hair,
with two bark-coloured irides,
and sleep encrusted lids,
and sharp fingertips.
The pattern of your roots
map out fallow terrain I crave
to one day,
scour of all it’s weariness.
You empathize with bulbs.
You are blooming brightness,
seeping into the night of my chest.
The age of every tree,
they render humanity void,
gifting rings to those
we have not seen grow rings.
What is expected of me? I am un
-sure, an able-bodied version of I
sight to foresee no sighs in my future.
All I do know is that I feel most comfortable
following in my older and sunken footsteps,
mapped out below in muddy memory.
In habit of my yearly ritual,
I greet the graveyards of our earliest
Pools of blue sit in people and beaches,
both let superior forces drip in
-side by side of the pier, they ask for you.
To two glasses held high in suspension
of another three hundred and sixty five
typed-out, carefully buried compliments.
Telegraphed from the Byronic heroes,
sides of myself you would rather younger.
Youthful clones lacking effects of passed time.
I ring multicoloured streamers around
the bedroom to form patterns of your name,
our planet rotates, warm and indifferent.
(this is an old poem i wrote a few months ago.)
I said “I didn’t miss you”, in a lower-case thought,
my fingers formed intertwined behind me, self-taught.
Each parked van in our lot blared symphonies,
without an owner in sight to steer any sense.
The blur of the rain only made this seem romantic,
but that weather only blessed us with mutual flu.
Vowing to Asimov, I rip out all of my circuits
in the high hopes of warping the hippocampus.
Revealing too much until your jaw locks shut,
as the onlookers pity our retainer-stricken lips.
In subtler octaves, you feast on gritted molar
until your stomach sank heavy with exaltation.
Twenty-four hours, awake inside of a warehouse,
crafting cliches about a positive future
as the sink overflows with regurgitated black bile,
as you leak sickness to stain the tan-white tiles.
Later, we lather in sins of fetishizing incoherence
to shed soppy morsels of withstanding guilt.
Seized attacks towards our coffee-stained ids,
egotistically seizing in notion of connected numb arms
whilst we lay and linger in light of previous flames
scorched in this bliss like masochistic arsonists.