Hears to the Mute

i loved you before you were trendy
.. before you wore alleyways 
on the topsides of your feet;

a filthy blonde
in argyle moral-
but before the floor made it yours
i remembered open sores.

you wear your designers like your long lost heart:
to someone elses beat.

the art in your face never used to be so abstract
-that dead canvas
only knows the eraser marks 
that didn’t take away 
the past.

.. provocateurs aren’t supposed to move,
so every tear you spit
in deaf ears 
adds another shaky stencil mark
to that crooked portrait you wear.

you’re your own fault.
-these backstrokes through your slate colored hair
only trace the gaping flaws
that were already there-
those flimsy stares and offwhite fears
will just keep fossilizing 
in that stone face, behind a logo
you hold so dear.

so keep crying
-beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and love is blind,
so lust just doesn’t try.

contemporary lovers laid to waste
-beneath the 21st centaur we’ve
not the color wheels to frame 
your oval maze.

you’re an ugly duckling 
all grown-down-
outside in, in-perfect pastel wings.

a face not even your own artist
could love.

you’re the doodles of Picasso
unripened in the after birth of Escher’s 
pale of rotten seeds;
a bad apple could still be painted
but you are the core that was 
given to me.

this vandalized heart
that beats in 3/4′s under stolen loops
on my contemporary walls-
is as hideous as the idea
you will ever be more than the downfall
of artistry-

those dirty stones,
so filled with indecency and lack of respect-
your grafitti glare in my bare-
you’re hideous;

you’re not art.

her shotguns barrels wore that tinted iris
like a velvet exhale,
loaded questions – fired guesses;
her gaze was the suicide marriage
in the distant veil 
beyond the dead man’s grave.

back hands in reverse – even worse poker faces.
they made love in a house of card
hearts and shitty whisperers on windy days
-they made lust in a house of card
sharks and falling spades 
swollowing every papercut, he made
her concieve the abortion
of his rotten egg.

before she batted bullets
there’s was the soul that folded;
before he shot his mouth off;
the day irony went and pulled it.

the cloud went spoiled and shit it’s tar ridden lining
across the wedding bells and ivory sighs.
the bride dined on rape 
as the honey-moon grew full of ego.
she reached for stars
to help her find her way to heaven
but they were too dim to light a blackening wife.

her eyelids pinched his filthy stare so tight
that when her eyes split the terror blind
rubies rained from down her eyes…
and spilled down into
her decaying chest
-to form a rosary between her breasts.

she never hurt a man,
but she murdered flies.

picked every shard of fragility up
and made an art of plots to kill
-benieth the miniscus of what use to be a heart
shaped vase 
she watched his face eat the sun she couldn’t save
as the blisters start to raise!

guilty murder, filthy burners
-faulty eyes killed a husband dead without a quarter
to guide his slut wide eyes.

her skeletons wore whiskey bottles for slippers
as hollow ribs sang like wind chimes;
while they tip-toed through alcohol wishes
and panting land mines
to find their way back in to her closet.

she never hurt a man,
but she murdered flies, she murdered rats
she never hurt a man,
she never met a boy-
who could look into her eyes
without collapse.

the golden goose skips the page
-conjunction ripe with verbose poets
at the tip of every would be ink dipped
feather light 
brick,
that lifts his neck
with the sexual dialect of third person
narrative-

disillusion:
the gift of flight for featherless
rejects,
that don’t even carry the pens
they’ve been said to scribble
the drunken rants of starving artists
across the sunsets with;

you were really a paper tiger all along
-siberian adjective draped in the nouns
that slid down the soggy cheeks
of opaque pages written in past lives 
through tears by better name:
alcohol;

and as those stripes wash away
from the tiger’s back,
his noun held hostage by slang
triggers 
fired like broken bones
at sticks and stones shaped like denial,
his beloved labels race against 
running finish lines
as they melt away before every finally stride
-and that final mark of identity
fades into new age jabber, 
and he can’t tell if its positive or not to be left 
a plain old, ordinary,
pussy.

run, run on kitty catastrophe
-the denumonte is just around the margin,
before the indentation 
that makes these writer’s blocks less than perfect,
despite thier beautiful structures
that are metaphormed with the source
of your stumbling paws.

keep running paper tiger..
keep chasing the foot note
as the fingers of bitter creators
pinch awake
every dream you could ever have
to make their own-
thier, there, here, i
am so sorry paper tiger-

this story has grown boring;

better yet than happy, 
is the death of a hero for an ending-

keep fighting for your write to live
and i’ll write every twisted turn
that you think you’ve earned
below that wasted piece of paper you call home.

art is the red root of death
that fed the leaves that turned into your roof
before the fibers of your very being
bound into a noose,
that dangled your life story
off the limbs of a rotting poet tree
before your eyes stared into my bark,
waiting for a heart in the crooked eye of conclusion… 

sorry paper tiger-
i’m great with words,
but better with lines.

the end.