Monday, February 10, 2014

"the black and white"

"the black and white"
written on instinct and request by jake kilroy.

how many cities can a drunk goddess carve
out of the soul of a teenage boy
raised on cinema?

what are these addict gods doing to the young women,
the ones who treat their hearts like empty rolodexes?

scavenger types, from the above, below, and beyond,
roam and slump through the dance halls and the dive bars,
and here we are, two people who can't stand the noise
or believe the silence that comes in pounding waves.
here we are, blinking in black and white,
rolling our tongues, tasting the sweat,
believing in divine intervention,
as we come to rest,
backs broken
in a bedroom field
of harvested moonlight.

we were pulling dark yarn from the sky
and sewing together a patchwork quilt
of the past and hanging it out to dry,
thumbing our way up our own coasts,
the land that is soft and vulnerable
with shores that don't need lighthouses.

we are fruitful energy in the making,
starved sinful and hungry for the appetite,
waiting for the hearts to be dragged like lakes;
all we need now is more firepower forever.