Sunday, December 16, 2018

Painted Wreckage (For Julia Haw)

Gonna stop writing and just make toast for a living
Burnt toast, cinnamon toast, all kinds of toast
I am afraid the writing is slipping away or at the very least my self- confidence has gone on holiday and scary movies no longer scare me like they once did

I like your ass
Imagine you holding onto the paintbrush like a sexy bird that gets color like they get despair and the deforestation of an artist’s bankrupted soul
Tired of waiting for hope and the fear it elicits like Siamese Twins hell-bent on finding a robe that fits them like sunshine fills a child’s cereal bowl

Want to make love to you on a mountain of newspapers because I still believe in newsprint and how it gets on your fingers like the ashes of our misbegotten, but never forgotten Ancestry ancestors
King of the hill was always too lofty a goal for my small mind so I settled instead for blowing up the world with my words and when that failed I took a knee and prayed the next wedgie I received was from Christ Almighty
The painted wreckage impressed neither one of us so we called it a day and committed suicide by binge watching Amazon Prime on phones the size of our most depressing of outsourced daydreams

I love your ass
Wish you’d paint a portrait of my remedial nightmares and the short bus I took when trying to get to you
Desire to be spread before you like a bald eagle whose best laid plans often go awry because the mice they hunt won’t give them the time of day

Charles Cicirella

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