The Indigo
04/18/10, 10:42 PM
Your breath smelled of summer,
Summer's back home in Goldsboro with Daddy,
Summer's that felt hot enough to melt away the upcoming fall and winter.
You have become like piles of shredded grass on the lawn.
The smell of you is cliche'd comfort,
Your presence indicates the end of study and the start of application,
And graduation.
With abandon so naive it borders on charming,
I have manipulated gravity
(leapt from the coastal ground in hopes of landing in hills hills hills of you).
And now,
Sickly green leeches hanging onto the creases of my skin for dear life.
Do they breathe sweat?
I swear,
Yes,
I swear I feel them crawling over me,
Dragging their deceptively small frames up my body,
Into my ears where I can hear them whispering to one another.
With voices like tiny chainsaws,
With voices like high pitched frogs,
With voices like frozen fog scraping along the Titanic's side
(just a fair warning of the ocean's real power
(it's only fair)),
With voices that seem to struggle out of their mouths,
(do they have mouths?)
Bubbling nearer and nearer to the edge of their lips,
(do they have lips?)
Before exploding with a loud PAP! from the pressure of it all,
(with all that)
They say.
What do they say?
By this point,
I'm no longer listening.
My mind has drifted to the smell of chalk being set on fire,
The sound of a rock being scraped against asphalt over, over, and over,
Stories in the news today about drummers having brain hemorages between the tat tat tat third and fourth beat tat.
These things are all real.
You,
You are just a pile of shredded grass on the lawn,
And I can always stand up out of you,
And watch pieces of memories left laying on the ground,
And wash off the rest of you in the pond shaped like a kidney.
Until I'm clean,
Until I'm... clean,
I will be submerged,
For the first time,
Not. in. you.
(See? You almost became my poem,
but only almost! Hahahahahahahaha!)
Summer's back home in Goldsboro with Daddy,
Summer's that felt hot enough to melt away the upcoming fall and winter.
You have become like piles of shredded grass on the lawn.
The smell of you is cliche'd comfort,
Your presence indicates the end of study and the start of application,
And graduation.
With abandon so naive it borders on charming,
I have manipulated gravity
(leapt from the coastal ground in hopes of landing in hills hills hills of you).
And now,
Sickly green leeches hanging onto the creases of my skin for dear life.
Do they breathe sweat?
I swear,
Yes,
I swear I feel them crawling over me,
Dragging their deceptively small frames up my body,
Into my ears where I can hear them whispering to one another.
With voices like tiny chainsaws,
With voices like high pitched frogs,
With voices like frozen fog scraping along the Titanic's side
(just a fair warning of the ocean's real power
(it's only fair)),
With voices that seem to struggle out of their mouths,
(do they have mouths?)
Bubbling nearer and nearer to the edge of their lips,
(do they have lips?)
Before exploding with a loud PAP! from the pressure of it all,
(with all that)
They say.
What do they say?
By this point,
I'm no longer listening.
My mind has drifted to the smell of chalk being set on fire,
The sound of a rock being scraped against asphalt over, over, and over,
Stories in the news today about drummers having brain hemorages between the tat tat tat third and fourth beat tat.
These things are all real.
You,
You are just a pile of shredded grass on the lawn,
And I can always stand up out of you,
And watch pieces of memories left laying on the ground,
And wash off the rest of you in the pond shaped like a kidney.
Until I'm clean,
Until I'm... clean,
I will be submerged,
For the first time,
Not. in. you.
(See? You almost became my poem,
but only almost! Hahahahahahahaha!)