composing
music
to
his wordage
listening
to Portishead
thinking
about when we
recorded
her bloody poetry
then
fucked on dirty sheets
his
guitar tears into my muse
like
a machete through the jungle
and
it leaves me on the floor screaming
and
i am a fetus unexplored and sponge like
listening
to Neko Case
our
conversations draw me in and spit me out
they
supply me with proof of life
when
feeling overwhelmed and lost in translation
his
reversals of misfortunate adulation are a bank shot
into
the reservoirs of imaginings fraught with peril
and
I find myself at a loss for words when you emerge
from
the shadowy depths like a picaroon or sea rover
composing
titanic silences
to
his four chambered cadenzas of clear-cut change
Charles Cicirella
4/1/2016
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