moqueur:

You speak
and the leaves fall from the trees
to lilt along your words and
if you curse, it strolls out in cursive-
there’s nothing your tongue can do
that isn’t beautiful
(I would know).
One time I went for a swim in your eyes
I met a mermaid
with a camera
who took Polaroids and called them memories for you,
she took me to your throat
so I could write you poems on the walls
in the tone of my lipstick, and
How do you see yourself?
Did you know
that you can merely graze my thigh
and it feels like nirvana- and not the band,
I’m talking divinity and light.
And your hands are like salvation
without the piercings,
the world can’t thank you enough
for putting your cross in the closet
(we’ll wait for it to come out),
Did you know the virginity of your heart
gave me a self-indulgent hope
that maybe I could do this right,
like maybe I won’t drive a freight train drunk
straight through my love?
The sensation of your lips is almost epileptic,
running with scissors over hot coals, that thrill,
and stopping to appreciate the warmth between my toes
and the opportunity to cut myself off from other zip codes
and the loose spiritual dance in your kiss,
did you know that?
Your smile tickles my kneecaps like the Italian mafia, did you know that?
They tickle with fucking hammers.
You render me bed-ridden.
We are always bed-ridden,
and I do not mind one bit, baby.
Did you know that I have two heartbeats
and I don’t believe in God either?
The best part was taking all those bolts
from your crutches,
building you a studio,
and watching you dance in it-
you’ve never been more fluent in Astaire
and it’s the warmest sensation to watch you
and tap my foot to your meteorshower odes
when my body wants to do so much more.
Join the dance.
But like my handwriting, it is also full of lefts.
I’ll watch.
Did you know that I’ve known your heaviness?
Your coat was tailored by a blacksmith
who thought anvils made better shoulder pads
I wore it too.
I’m here to help you shed- it is summer,
after all, let your skin have a go. 
There are two heartbeats in my body,
their syncopation sounds like ragtime
they’re for me and this feeling I call God,
because I refuse to believe he’s some cosmic maitre d’, 
rather, he’s our embodiment of intimacy,
in the middle of a meteorshower,
dancing crutchless through the accumulation
of all the things that held you back- now long gone-
inhaling clumsy and exhaling sex-
God is your eyelashes brushing my cheek, I hope you know, and
Love, you’ve never stood taller. 
 

moqueur:

The first time my eyes rested on you
that merciful moment, they rested.
You were exactly as I imagined
and nothing I knew.
My inner oracle tweaked her divinity.
(Oh, she tweaked, alright…)
And thanks for rolling down the windows,
I thought I might faint
in the true nature of southern belle vapors
(then I remembered my well-natured feminism 
and how discouraging an unconscious stranger
in the front seat of your car can be.
I achieved resistance.)
I spent the drive home swallowing firecrackers
but it felt so good and warm. Like vodka.
I laughed at your voice.
I couldn’t quit stealing glances at your hand when it found mine,
it felt like a new toy
made of an undiscovered color
that I, being the kid in love that I am,
would carry in my pocket everywhere I go
without even knowing it.
I couldn’t quit looking at your knees
and your lips,
and how your smile stretched them to the coasts,
and I wanted so badly to be a band around your wrist,
wrapped snug, it looked so good
even if all I ever did was tell you the time
I’d have a smile spreading from 3 to 9
for that wrist.
The landscape was so goddamn flat.
I did not feel flat.
I was buxom, looped, tangled, high, living.
I felt everything in Andy Warhol vision
You were surreal, Dali, Beckett surreal.
Someone should have painted us.
You welcomed me home
to a little room with a red wall
and I settled myself all around you 
showing me the books that gave you eyes
the records that gave you ears until
my palms quit sweating, until
the night was loosed,
spouting galaxies into a big bang implosion,
into the universe inside your window,
into my new home
I’m full of moons in my reincarnation,
radioactive from the glow in your smile
(take my hair, let me turn green and frail,
but I want that smile)
the night secured me.  
And that was our first day together.

moqueur:

It’s the moment when you roll over. Heart steadies. Sheets sigh with fatigue. The ceiling looks a little darker than it did an hour ago, the fingertips trace mumbled caresses, your mind returns. About the time the thickness of the air settles and there’s nothing left of instinct is when. It’s the moment for the universe to recognize us, as humans, in our masterpiece, and stand in awe. Just after our hip bones clicked like jigsaw puzzles and my jaw found its polar opposite in yours as they became magnetically inseparable- lock and roll. Right about now the cellos whisper me to almost tears for this rhapsody, an uprising in me not of you and me, but of us. A being. I can’t imagine how I could even be without a taste of their afterglow- harmonious and euphoric as the guillotine slice, sans the slice. Because we are not in this room. We are somewhere else. I am in your delicately closed eyelids, I know you’re sweeping low beams back from the other side. And you are in my back, your palms tell me so. This room didn’t even happen, sans the moment. 

moqueur:

I apologize for the penmanship,
it gets kind of messy
my hands are tired, mangled
from trying to hold so many worlds together,
Atlas didn’t even have this much trouble.
Plus, I’m left-handed so the ink tends to smear.
But then again, what is ever perfect?
My touch has been known to ruin a good thing or two,
I have been known to fall to ruins,
and though I believe that no amount of destruction
that teems in my skin could ever crumble
someone like you,
I want your safety
like I want your embrace.
I don’t mean to poison ivy 
push you on the swings
it’s just I wanna be close
and we all know how playground adventurers
don’t need soap.
For fuck sake, they’re adventurers;
tough, resilient.
I’m not a death trap,
but my frailty is a condemnation
from the day I left the factory, faulty,
refurbished heart
reboot me,
wait.
I’m not mechanics.
I am the ache of ambition
it slows my hands.
I want to believe that I am capable
of loving you like Machu Picchu
without wiping out the civilizations
that thrive in your spirit.
I want to hold you like a piece of
Mesopotamia that survived
all those futile holy wars and desert marches
and made it here to me
in my careful, weary hands,
but brokenness is all that is left
when things dissolve through my fingers
and it is so heavy.  

moqueur:

Tonight…
I realized that I am the worst writer ever.
I know what you’re thinking-
“Say it isn’t so.”
It is so. It is so much so that it is also
la and ti and do,
because I had the conductor’s baton at ready,
warmed up the scales, 
raised in the anticipation of symphony, rhapsody, Vivaldi, but
without a melody in my heart, on my sleeve, off in space,
trying to find something to stick the metronome meter
back into my song,
I’ve been singing but without words,
with no meaning
I’ve been singing Oriental rugs and limousines,
dragging pretenses out of my throat,
burping up satin underwear and cigarettes
to frame this about me-
For one night I wish to be the Cezanne
next to an empty sketchbook,
How about something that means something?
But tonight 
I had the painter’s brush at ready
raised in anticipation of rage, lust, Van fucking Gogh
without a single teardrop of paint,
I took the oils from my skin and smeared them instead
telling the canvas to show me a portrait instead
let the art create me instead
be the art instead,
Instead 
the tongue bit me
because I stood there poised 
for speech with nothing to say, 
moved by nothing, no worth, 
The Thinker blind in a hurricane,
virgin rigor mortis all tuxedo-ed up at prom,
but I’m standing in the middle of the world
in a world where everything is happening
to everybody
full of charcoal and blood and ecstasy and saxophones
and I’m rolling the black bowling balls in my face I call eyes
into six inches of drywall for inspiration,
How about something that means something?
Counterproductive is my middle name. 
Yes. 
I bowled a strike, drywall crumbs in my paint, shellshock in my symphony,
here’s my meek redemption:
You want something that means something?
The grass is green. Tell that to a blind guy, it’s fucking amazing.
Vultures, those ugly, loveless creatures, mate for life.
Listen to the Faure Requiem.
The sun gives us life, tans, and cancer.
Because condemnation is a pity and not matter,
it can be created. And destroyed.
Autism and down syndrome will forever provide the world with 
some of its most selfless and full-hearted individuals. 
Somewhere in this world, there is a Subway that will give free sandwiches
to homeless folks on Fridays
and a dry cleaners that will clean your suit for free
if you need it for a job interview and cannot afford it. 
The horizon will always be there for me to hang my hopes on,
just in case I ever think I’m done.
People die every day. People are born every day. People survive every day.
We touch everything from the dirtiest floors to the most pristine of hearts.
And love, 
the most battered and torn,
plagued by Stockholm Syndrome
imitated and ashamed, God-forsaken,
still comes back to throw pebbles at our windows
with sweaty palms and scars-a-plenty,
flowers it picked from our own garden on the way to the door
and a pleasantly awful mixtape. 
All of it perhaps worthy of our however reluctant appreciation.
If I ever again say 
that I am without inspiration,
punch me straight in the perspective. 
Life is fucking incredible.

moqueur:

Cicada songs in the air taste like
the troubled peace of nostalgia
and smell like a lavender sunset
over the bronze cadence of a field of
wheat, right in the middle of the summer,
when it rains lemonade on front porches
and knobby knees once again suck vitamin D from the
heat lightning warmth with yawns of content.
One of the most beautiful moments of my life.
On my way to the city
I know I won’t come back, no,
nor grasp over my shoulder into the past
that made its reluctant transition from my heart to my head,
like I was once so tempted to do,
But the cicadas that sing to me
will always usher in my adolescence
and help me to recall everything that 
became me, from the sheen of the dancing wheat
to the gashes of memories torn through the sky
by the summer lightning that, some nights,
was the best friend I could ask for.

(via moqueur)

moqueur:

You put embers alive in my skin
Smoldering in every pore,
kindling at my core
Like I’m made of light
your light, 
You make me feel like a caveman’s treasure
Let’s make cave paintings with our fingers and carve 
ourselves into cavern walls
I am survival licking in the wild winter 
to thaw your bones
and the scent of toasted marshmallows.
You make me flicker like a native dance
for youth and scar tissue and miracles
I tangle myself and untangle in you.
The leaves above me partner up and start cutting rugs
to the song of our sparks
I toss my ashes like confetti,
for you are my celebration. 
Sleep on a bed of coals with me
Feed me through the night 
Let me climb your legs like thirsty trees,
I want to set you ablaze.