remembering the mixtape hissing through midnight
by
Patrick Werle
to bend this empty bed into star crossed lovers to stained sheets to freak flags flying over Ikea dream homes to cry for dead fathers to live sacrificed in brown bottles card games pink slip losing bets among the whispered rumour of disease buried in the dusty boxes of family secrets to walk our grandfathers into the next room into the grave into some other side to leave them with simply nothing left to say to pull astral-waves from inside the back of your eyes sprinkle moon light on familiar headstones histories and ghost stories that burrow in the small of my back to laugh out loud in graveyards to set the spirits of the long forgotten free to dance and sing and drink and mourn for the living still trapped in delusion
to write a dim rented room onto the tongues of waxed waning lovers that never were that never will be written in books movies trendy graphic novels to raise to rise to capture the stories floating above you in dead-skin dust obscured by clouds by silk scarves by bowed hysteric brick walls of rent controlled daydreams to carve the history of us into my chest so when the wounds heal the remains another raised skin scar to forever remember the day you melted me into something other than another dog-eared collection of words a half-dead mixtape of the songs you whispered to me that night back in June
to lose the simple parts of a mind in your mad grotesque verses and to taste you after a jog through Central Park to imagine you at the drinking fountain in the public square your lips caressing water droplets on your chin cooling the August heat as you gaze into another version of you to burn your books so that only i can know the words you wrote so when you ask me to give you back those words you took from me and i took from you i will draw you a simple childish picture of one daydream and we’ll call it even
to write a dim rented room onto the tongues of waxed waning lovers that never were that never will be written in books movies trendy graphic novels to raise to rise to capture the stories floating above you in dead-skin dust obscured by clouds by silk scarves by bowed hysteric brick walls of rent controlled daydreams to carve the history of us into my chest so when the wounds heal the remains another raised skin scar to forever remember the day you melted me into something other than another dog-eared collection of words a half-dead mixtape of the songs you whispered to me that night back in June
to lose the simple parts of a mind in your mad grotesque verses and to taste you after a jog through Central Park to imagine you at the drinking fountain in the public square your lips caressing water droplets on your chin cooling the August heat as you gaze into another version of you to burn your books so that only i can know the words you wrote so when you ask me to give you back those words you took from me and i took from you i will draw you a simple childish picture of one daydream and we’ll call it even