I’ll hold you close and never let you go-
trace gypsum lines in the sand with effervescent ideals
until you’re nothing more than ragged crescendo
In the middle of my operetta.
Sit still for a second,
quiet your ebullience and personality,
You harbinger of
Surreptitious broadcasts and elongated choruses,
and harmonize old big-band tunes
from rusted jazz-age speakers.
Take those old torn pictures that can’t be sent
and thoughts that won’t be heard
And wrap yourself in their comforting smell.
Set ablaze those old thoughts that,
You’ll be good enough.
Feel the embrocation of gospel on your skin
and listen, just for a moment
to the Heartbeat of the bricks that line your walls.
Spill your soul onto the pages and
Who cares if it’s not enough?
Write your story in the blood of your enemies,
called self-loathing and imperfection,
Until you hold nothing but a dalliance with divinity.
Nirvana is your name, you arbalest,
Flying free and letting loose those bolts
that tear through empty whisky bottles
and upturned reading glasses.
Gesture to the world that you love
and fall on martyred dreams
that can no longer come true.
Keep your heart hidden in calcium cages that creak
Just a little bit too much when you open the hinges.
Shatter those old perceptions of
2-way mirrors and ice-pick reflections;
Act out your stories in plays
and old maritime songs;
Rise above the others
And persuade their memories into nothingness
and embrocation of insouciance on their skin.
Don’t you dare give up,
not for a second,
and builder of homes.
Just because tomes of years long past say otherwise
Doesn’t mean you’ll fail.
Learn to accept that not every word that tumbles
from your numbed lips and sealed eyelids
Will result in rooftile thoughts, gleaming hot and bright.
Gather the folds of your shredded aspirations
And stitch them into flags of independence
and newspaper clippings.
Imagine a universe of nothing but yarn
held together by non-existant gossamers
and a little bit of duct-tape.
String it around your clenched fists
and fasten your reality to it
until it pulls you further and further down
So you can march across empty battlefields
and endless battalions.
Obey no one
But follow yourself
Until your hopes are scattered in heaps
across teenage bedroom floors
And are written into Lana Del Ray songs.
Rinse yourself of all the bucolic sins
that emulate the empty hollows of your soul
In your veins. Imbue them with cotton-candy kisses
and ephemeral carousel rides.
You are my platinum dipped rose,
velvet whispers, and cigarette smoke inhalations-
Caught in endless fishing nets, so drape me in your
Cacophony of piano wire nooses and violin bows
And write me into your symphony.