i've got a sidearm smile,
slick and shiny like a swingblade embrace
a turncoat romance
the last dance on my derailing train of thought--
stop, she says. quit trying to be and
i'm not trying, i swear, not lying, i'm not
working over-hard and over-long
to pan out some over-easy lines,
full of coy wordplay and lascivious
descriptions, dripping with--
no, she says. no, you're doing it again. stop.
you're never happy, i say, never pleased,
you're my unsatisfied soul lover, demanding
too stringent tribute to your sway,
expecting epics of Jones'd love-lines
dedicated to your imperial hips--
please, she says. stop trying to be clever.
clever's all I got, baby cakes, clever's my bag,
my grab, my last grasping mask, because
if i lose clever, all i've got is ordinary, and that's
not enough to keep such sweet company as
clever's gotten me thusfar--
why, she says, why do you do this to me?
do what, says I, try to dazzle you with my
wit, my love-addled rhyme, my fatal flaws,
my devil's smile, all crooked and broken?
why would i try otherwise? can't draw out flies
without my honey-scented notebook of pleas
and prayers, reeking desperate...
i'm leaving, she says. i'm gone, man.
goodbye, says i, sweet grape, sweet lime,
lemon-tongued tart that you are, yes, good and
bye the way, i never really loved you, i just
needed someone to write about. (and if you
buy that most obvious of all my
gold-leafed and illuminated falsehoods,
i'll serve you up another to chase it down, like
bitter follows sour spirits.)
(**how about that, even timestamp lies.**)