Wrecks of Old (The Cross-Pollination of Broken Bullshit)

I. Mary

 

 

Travel deeply

into my broken lungs,

 

I breathe shallow songs.

 

Forget me not:

The ceremonial I was when you left me there.

The parody of sound,

on a wave, where the lightning fades into retina and background clamor,

 

I know how easily all of that comes to her and those cut from her cloth.

 

A rickety grip,

on things you were never meant to have.

 

I make more waves in a bathtub alone,

 

the fake

and the shattered;

we all bathe in the same sense of what mattered.

 

Margin of error is slight;

the sincerest breath comes

in the dead of night.

 

I cave in, like a moist box,

where someone made a home.

Make way if you can, if you

understand just how simple

 

this dream is, how to meet it

where it lands. Mary makes

her way to…

 

Broken down,

collapsed wrecks of old paper hats.

Keep things tight on your skull

and maybe it’ll return to you

when you need it the most.

 

Digest this confession,

the meager…

 

I confess it isn’t going to buy my Heaven

but I still wait

or maybe sit where I’ve always been and will remain forever…

 

a poet for no one…but me.

 

II. Mal

 

 

Travel shallow

in my broken ears;

 

I hear every note of your song.

 

Don’t forget my rigors:

just what I record, when

you last forged a breath,

on a wave, where the light trades places with water and whispers alike.

 

She knows just how easy to make it come to her and those she cuts from her cloth.

 

A rickety grip

on the matters at hand,

 

waves in cherry bathtubs;

she makes—

 

the fake,

the real,

and the broken fixtures of what matters, “all that it takes,” she says.

 

Margin of error is mine;

the iciest breast come

to rest.

 

I cave like a moist promise

you made in my hand.

A home I had when I last

 

came around. Mark me,

if you can, if it’s understood

how much this means to

 

me, and where to leave it where

I can find it again. Mal makes her

way to…

 

Bruised perhaps,

wrecks of old, stubborn stones.

To keep things solid

in a heart; and, maybe things come out right

for you.

 

Digest these words worth every denomination to buy a spot in Hell

but still I wait

or maybe I do nothing but live out my days like they’ve always been…

 

will remain forever…a lover of no one…but me.

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