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Pandas
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Throat Magic
A smoking gun. Is that how I see love?
When lustfully looking down one's nose just to gloat.
A loaded tongue, is that all I've become?
Buckshot that sprays such spiteful spit all around.
A loose canon. Is that what I call love?
Vapor trails of such conviced ghosts. Friend or foe?
This steely tongue is all I've relied on,
but these polished prose cut oh so cold for so long.
So take back all I pontificate.
Is that enough?
To never state another goddamned thing,
is not enough. Far from enough.
I've been indian-giving my opinions to all who'll listen.
End of a scene. The bones picked clean.
My blanket statements hold small pox and fleas.
Miles and miles of foaming bile.
I've spilled my contents onto every surface.
The bar stool seats and sad city streets
soak in my pessimistic logic.
Cobbling together this debris.
It's not enough.
To shout but never learn a goddamned thing.
That's not enough. Still not enough.
To take back all I pontificate,
isn't enough.
Never state another goddamned thing,
is that enough? Will that hold up? Well, close enough.
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I'm still shooting to kill
with burnt coffee grinds and an endless landfill.
Retract these claws. Unclench this jaw.
I'm out of sorts without ear poison discourse.
Instead... Instead let's stay in bed
where the ruins won't pile from the things I've said.
Heart's in a drought and an ugly mouth
I'll keep it down in this nest of down.
I'll keep it down. I'll keep it down.
It's more than words left on the page.
I'm more than words left on a page.
We're more than words left on the page.
You're more than words left on a page.
You're the quotes I cite. Short and concise.
The perfect line, I've never figured how to write.
You're my fixed dice. Scotch on ice.
The perfect line, I've never figured how to write.
You're all numbers prime. The constant pi.
The perfect line, I've never figured how to write.
You're a peregrine dive. The scent of pine.
The perfect line, I've never figured how to write.
You're red skies at night. Sweetness and light.
The perfect line, I've never figured how to write.
You're Beethoven's Ninth. Form and rhyme.
The perfect line, I'll never write.
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