Friday, August 22, 2008

an ode to Kaufman read aloud in yuppie pubs deaf drunk


heater's on. 1am. simplicity in this.
humming to the sound of the machinery of the never-ending war.
always in the distance.
climax dreamt an end to the material.
engine's on. a gorgeous smile.
my tongue in her. back arched, all the while,
we know the impossible, the inevitable.
we numb to the wasted night.
stumbled conversation by detachment.
a word slurred and she's gone.
the stereo's sonic to an imagined beat in passing.
if free i would of asked you, to have me, forever.
in silence, absent panorama repeating suburbia.
and these are no ships to return.
fading bright neon, nerve lost to converse as vision distorts.

this is an intimate poem.


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