Something

Foreign bodies,
(yours means
something
to me
when there
a long time,
but really ornimental,
nothing).

Foreign eyes,
(only yours
im scared of
looking into
a long time,
but it’s really just optics,
nothing).

Foreign mouths,
(only yours
means something when
smiling a big smile,
but truly just
a facial organ,
nothing).

Nothing-nothing-nothing and it’s
what i’m drowning in,
like a
trapped mouse
feeding off of stale bread,
hoping to see a better day next,
as i
milk out every last drop of you that
does not and will not rest,
the fear and heartache souring your breath,
the nothing gaps that holy your chest,

so i wish up the love
and i wish up the dream
and wish it all up so it can all seem
something:

but it’s the something that does not exist
that i am in love with, o true!
as i am spinning a tall tale of pumpkins and you,
a tall tale on the edge of the conversation,
a tall tale spun from the imagination,
of crying and laughing,
of staying and dashing
of goodbye and hello
of where’d you come and where’d you go,
of what’s your name i’ll say hello
of should i be naive or should i know,
as you
understand what i’m feeling,
and then decide on responding to that by
feeling nothing:
all i ever wanted
was just a little
something
to have around.

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

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Bitte

When will you be back?
why what do i feel
this is not even,
you are not even real,
yellow transposed by blue,
whit eon black,
your style is a
hue.
your pastel loneliness,
i wish u were a girl,
oh how i wish
you were a tall lovely
girl,
not u.
When will you be back?

when i was in thekitchenandi
told you all about you,
on my mind,
all the time
i was crying and your smile seemed
dismembered,
still trying so damn hard to hold onto a
joke.

spilling ink onto you,
onto the frame onto the picture,
filled with the epitome of
self
expression;
do u want me,
or are u just too scared?

piled up upon,
i do not even think you are
substantial,
i kno this for a fact,
but u r there.

air between your bones,
your teeth,
your ribs and scull,
and nothing in between the in between the air,
but more nothingness
that i want to extract something
from.

bitte
bitte
bitte
bitte
i will bitte for you, please and
thank for you,
piss and pray for you,
bitte and claw my way toward nothing and you
and some thing we call a minor third means destined fool
a cold perhaps kiss?
too late,
too much anyway
(bitte).

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry 2017

car park friend

i feel empty and alone—
full and together—
at the same time
with you;

perhaps—
the anticipation as a numbness
the love like a full belly
together makes
for lots of fouls
and felt mistakes.

i feel,
i grasp,
i want for more,
for the everything,
for the everything which certainly definitely positively not you,
for the what you stand for and what i’m still enraged i’ve
yet to find and hold and keep
and stare into and pray and love and fastly in my sleep.

you are a rugged boy,
a limp and a side step and a smile boy,
and you mean nothing to me
(stay a little while)

fill me up while you empty me out
empty boy,
thin boy,
thin boy,
frail boy,
frail frail music mind,
frail frail left behind,

minimize
any urge to
briefly kiss your eyes,
for i do not love you,
but i wished
that i do
(oh how i miss
u,
o what sur-
rpise).

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

Small Town Musicians who Have Never Seen NY Play a Rhapsody in Blue

i.

the brash sound
of barraging horns
enter a city
which they have never seen,
but only thought about
in a dream.

Nobody ever
speaks about
that hamlet on the edge,
where,
sun baking,
we stand naked,
running like children, over a bridge
whose lake
no longer flows in a steady stream
but lies a stagnant body
as if,
holding up a glass vile
one could see the sun’s reflection through it’s
clear distorted flesh.

Still,
they play music
about the city
they have never seen,
a g o r a p h o b i c,
the l a n d s c a p e r o o m y;
All you need’s a ‘scraper on the skyline
to play a whole new tune
on the rooftops of your own
metropolis
land.

‘Cause,
if nobody bothered to save up the cash
next year or or last year
or the year before that
you can just
empty your pockets to the
dry riverbed
and hope it carries you upstream.

An exercise
in thought:
Think of yourself
as a bus on the way
or a fire escape
housing a homeless cat
or an open sinkhole in the street
and the endless plumbing below….
now, open your eyes:
you’re still in the same place,
aren’t you?

ii.

Penny Perfect, like a biscuit?
the brash sound
No says Penny Pie I’ve got three here
of barraging horns
here Penny Perfect wanna walk some?
enter a city they have never seen,
but only thought about in a dream
no says Penny Pie lemme stay here please
nobody ever speaks about that hamlet on the edge
Penny Perfect that’s fine sweet angel, and
where, sun baking, we stand naked,
Penny

Penny

Penny

Penny

Perfect.
running like children over a bridge
Gingham Gorgeous take a photo
whose lake no longer runs
Gingham Gwenny I’m no looker
in a steady stream
Gingham Gorgeous care to gambole
but lies a stagnant body, as if
no says Gingham Gwenny I feel tired
as if, holding up a glass vile
Gingham Gorgeous what of money? I’m broke and
one could see the sun’s reflection Through it’s clear distorted flesh
Gingham

Gingham

Gingham

Gingham

Gorgeous.

 

iii.

the brash sounds
of barraging horns, now dampened by sounds of rainfall
enter a city
which they have never seen,
but only thought about
in a dream,

while white-washed walls wet and wither in the water .

Nobody, nobody ever speaks about
that hamlet on the edge,
where,
rain pouring,
we stand naked, open armed and empty,
running like children, over a bridge
whose lake overflows in sound.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry