Do.Until.True.

Words, Sounds and Inspirations of Warren C. Longmire

Speakwright: SONNET ONE

speakwright:

Hey you I know you and I we feel real slow

it takes a couple years sometimes to unpack

something simple said over a beer in a bar

is that what you’re doing with your shoulders

pulled up sometimes everything just turning

over real slow when we’re walking to the bar?

Hey I know you and I we…

(via speakwright-deactivated20131218)

11 months ago - 2

Let’s

Let’s play dark and at noon.
Let’s play go-kart stick shift and butter churn.
Let’s play the peach juice dribble,
        the come hither bowling ball
        and the slow tug for organs almost hidden.

Let’s play jenga, battleship and chess.
Then, lets play chessboard that got boring and flipped,
        and suddenly all our pieces are scattered across the floor.

Let’s play couch, area rug and kitchen.

Let's play queen,
king, castle and pawn.

Let's play ms,
and mistress
and mister
and master.

Let's play toddler and teenager,
priest, ex-con and deathbed tomorrows.

Let's play harvest moon, public weed and park bench.
Let's play sugar crystal sand, boxer briefs and untied bikini bottoms.

Let's play the church silence,
        the frustrated neighbor
        and late night knock at the door.

        Who could that be?

Let's play sore and fresh and humid and cheap syrup on a saturday.

Let's play cave diving black of a iris is the only line left between naked and nude.
Let's play dolphin, mouse, monkey and dinosaur.

Let's play cumulous cloud and the smell of rain coming.

Let's play mouth and toe.
Let's play armpit and nose.
Let's play penis and pussy.
Let's play cock and cunt.

Let’s play the one where our parents don’t exist.
Let's play the one where that night never happened.
Let's play the one where every hurt can be healed from
and every encounter is as fresh as a just crowning birth. 


Let's play the one where I am never desperate,
        and you are never desperate,
        where I am never defined,
        and you are as exact as you feel like.

Where we are never in need
        but we are always in want.

Let's play the world where this is always fun.

Let's play the world where I am the ink dipped brush of a genius painter and you are the smirk of a blank canvas chased into flushed red, Chinese character and landscape.


Let's play the time you were a ripe orange squeezing with brow farrowed,
        tight and hunched like a jockey.

Let's play with all the monsters in the closet
        and all the toys under the bed. 

Let's play show and tell,
        demand and take,
        pray and plead
        and thank you, thank you 
and
        above all things
        darling:

Let's play soon.

The Atheist’s Orgasm

Poetry is what conversation sounds like when you’re drunk,
and you’re happy, and the earth is a TLC reality tv show
that will turn off whenever PECO decides to say,
"Fuck it."

When you’re lazy, it is late, 
and masturbation has become boring:
it’s the yo-yo of yourself throwing up into a laptop
and discovering that you kind of like the taste.

It’s the drugs. Every dose.
You’d say no to the drugs
but the only time they talk to you is when you’re high.

It’s the nasty shit.
The forever alone that balloons
during that low keening song you can’t stop listening to.
The joke that kills every-time.

It’s atheist’s orgasm. You know what I mean. You know.

You want details? Here’s a detail:
You are too old to have a bathroom this disorganized.
You are the one who’s on top of things.
You feel so alone.

You have found God in everyone, or you forgotten religion so fully
you could pass though walls and it would not phase you.

But today, how long before you get there?
Where are you going? Why did you come to this room?

You want details? It is the desperate pimping for likes on a smartphone
in a place that was suppose to be fun.
You are depressed, you’re kidding yourself and you know it.

You are washing other people dishes and you are almost 31.
You are living with someone perfect and it is getting old.

Or at least, at least, you are a dissociated train wreck
mumbling what you should have said to your mom
or your boss or that asshole or that trifling nigga or to yourself.

Always, in the end, to yourself and it is the weekend
and the mirror above your crusty sink it frosted with spit.

When you snap and the sparkling end of firecracker is in your hand.
And you want to hold it just a few more seconds.

Write this down.

The one about peeing your pants.
The texture of athlete’s foot that summer of three jobs and a bicycle.
Your every embarrassment is embossed on your forehead.
When your every dance move is a white boy

Write this down.

What a victory it is to bleed.
To bleed like a grass stain barely cover the seams of you.
Jump off the cliff at that second.

This is your poem.