Beloved Twitches: A Poem In Three Parts

"Beloved Twitches: A Poem In Three Parts"
written honorably this time by jake kilroy.
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Part I
(The Overture of Gold Eyes, White Hearts & Immaculate Mischief):
A skyline of heavens against the horizon,
ablaze with bottle rockets and visions of the future,
sure-fire in its crayon colors, melted in the sun,
all above the world below, so righteous and bright;
a ferris wheel with a home attached, spinning,
for insomnia doesn't seem so grim and bastardly
as the pores stretched over cheekbones fill with sugar.

Of breathing patterns -
eyes white as snow, marked with footprints in ovals,
and a stomach empty with picnic blankets for wallpaper,
for past lives are now being considered and reconsidered,
for what is the carnival prize that lasts and lacks spoil?

"You're beautiful" - all that clunks out,
like a jalopy on a backroad, just missing the plains and swamps,
with a radio tower in the distance, playing the right songs.

What a waste a tongue is in conversation now.
How important it is at night.
But good is a mouth without confidence?

Strike up the band!
One smile may just kill us all.

Part II
(The Legendary Tale of Endless, Endless Stars):
"Darling, let me make you breakfast," he croaked,
perfumed in a caffeine buzz from lovemaking.
Smeared sweat and a newspaper grin
cover his face in origami starry eyes.

This is love.
This is the majestic circus,
the lucid therapy,
the machine of perpetual motion.
This is where it all gets better.

"Everything I do that's not in this bed with you
is like waiting in line at the Post Office," he tells her
one summer evening where they swallow fireworks
and choke on balloons until words escape them,
so they have to sleep with the window open
for a breeze that kneads their skin like sacred clay.

But this heart is a prisoner of suburbia,
drunk on lemonade hopes and pretzel dreams,
waiting out church for brunch
and mowing the grass to sleep.

What lust? What anarchy? What effort?
This is the divine giggle of the endless;
prayer cakes eaten in a fit of nostalgia.

These are our hands wet from memory,
our brains like sandy beaches aglow,
our wardrobe never less than royal.

How am I not boundless?
They both wonder.

Later,
     "I had a dream you were engaged."
     "And you weren't the lucky guy?"
     "Nope. I just happened to be in the supermarket."
     "What'd you buy?"
     "Does it matter?"
     "I mean, were you shopping for one or two?"
     "I hadn't thought of that."
     "Maybe you were already married."
     "I don't think so, because I could taste the jealous when I woke up."
     "So? That never goes away."

Part III
(The Timely Narrative of a Fairy Tale Drinking Problem):
Who still curates this museum?
Who still consider this place holy?
Who still waits at the door when all we serve our nods and shakes?

On a couch less familiar now:
     "Remember when I washed your feet?"
     "That was the night I knew I loved you."
     "Because I bathed you while you watched television?"
     "Because you wanted my toes to touch water like I was at the beach."
     "If only we had sand."
     "If only."

See the wasteland in book stores, coffee shops and car dealerships.
There's no pride in these fists.
Barely even a pen.

Nobody wants to see the disappearing act with the magician's records and shirts left on stage. Is he supposed to send his assistant for them?

For my next trick -
new clothes,
new music,
new friends.

Oh, how has time passed without my body aching?
Is the calendar that drunk on ink?
Hardly.

This was a lovely dinner party.
Now, let us burn the ingredients.
No one here will ever eat again.
At least for now.

What a promise to make in an idle season.
What a love that can taste like dirt.
What a grave for nothing.

What a beautiful hope mistaken for the wrong _________.