rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Withered

I feel as withered as the sourgrass by my front porch that I forgot to water this year, but not as dry. I'm desperate for tonight's low temperature of 69 degrees, though it won't arrive for several hours yet. I might be asleep when it does, but if so I hope it chills my dreams. There are to be a couple of even cooler nights coming up. They will provide but a temporary respite, though, as next weekend is to be even hotter than this one was.

But tonight I will get to see English people murder one another on television. Yes, the PBS stations have ended their begathon and returned to normal programming. I've missed those dead English, though tonight their murders will be especially sad because the English live in a cooler climate than I do. It must be terrible to be murdered when the weather is pleasant. Like most Californians, I am currently wishing I'd been murdered last spring, before it got this bad. Ah, well. Too late now.




Sunday Verse



We Were Emergencies


from Gentleman Practice

by Buddy Wakefield



We can stick anything into the fog
and make it look like a ghost
but tonight
let us not become tragedies.
We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows,
lookin’ like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go.
Let go.

Tonight
let’s turn our silly wrists so far backwards
the razor blades in our pencil tips
can’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside.
Step into this
with your airplane parts.
Move forward
and repeat after me with your heart:

“I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself.”

Make love to me
like you know I am better
than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I’m new to this.
But I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop
without jumping.
I have realized

that the moon
did not have to be full for us to love it,
that we are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it,
that if my heart
really broke
every time I fell from love
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now.

But hearts don’t break,
y’all,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9–1–1.
Tell them I’m having a fantastic time.

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