1. |
Affection
03:39
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Affection is a decision,
and I made it on you.
I called it meant to be,
no--I called it symmetry;
what else could I do?
I took the tip of my nose.
I started making circles on your cheek with it,
hoping to warm up the magnet between
your ebony lips and me.
But it didn't work,
and not in the way one might think.
Because you kissed me;
I just didn't feel anything,
not dirty, not clean,
just breath exchanged between
two mouths on a winter eve.
I'm doing everything a tender lover would do,
but still I don't have a clue, no, I don't have a clue.
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2. |
Frozen Custard
03:01
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Two 40s of malt liquor before her,
like she worships at their alter,
and she does.
I'm so good at painting pictures
with my words;
watch and learn.
I ask her a lot of questions,
and she answers like it's nothing;
words burst loose.
A conversationalist, no--a talker,
she doesn't care to return the favor,
at least she tells the truth.
When she was eight, she prayed for a body,
and she got one;
I guess that's why I'm here.
Even her secrets are superficial,
but I hang around, hoping it'll pay off
if she kisses my ear.
Until she tells of how her grandpa had his way with her
when she was just five years old.
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3. |
Afterimage
03:56
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Should love move fast?
Elusive spark,
no questions asked;
take pleasure in the dark.
Found in the wild,
never tamed,
shouldn't risk,
things not staying the same.
Or should love move slow?
Should it pool and ascend?
Be a drop from the faucet,
on which to depend.
But pipes get rusty,
and bones start aching,
like they've been gnawed on,
can't be ignored.
Does love have to burn to be good?
Because I'm starting to think that it should.
I want you as my afterimage.
That amorphous sting,
that so defiantly
colors everything the eyes see,
that guiding light
that lets me sleep at night,
that holy ghost,
always overgrown.
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4. |
Pouring Upwards
03:43
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Somebody told me
that that western needle
was calling my name.
What if I get there
and all of those voices
won't come out to play?
I've awoke,
ear to the pillow,
with dread on my sheets.
And all I do
is try and pour upwards,
week after week.
There's a place,
right past the middle,
where the end's not yet in sight.
Let me stay there,
colonize.
I know
that home is a stone,
covering me.
But who says
that there's any mildew
growing on me?
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5. |
Hollow
03:27
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A hand touched the small of my back.
Then I remembered I was in a room of strangers.
I reached to break the news,
then realized I didn't want to.
Why not play my part?
Why not sidle up to my sweetheart?
After all, I must look alright,
at least from behind.
After all, I can conjure fate
in anything.
After all, your agency
won't occur to me.
After all.
What if you're not right for me,
or what I want you to be?
Will I think of you as a lost cause,
as a stray dog?
Will I hollow you out with my love?
Will I scrape your sides clean?
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6. |
An Arbitrary Placeholder
03:28
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My ear's crowding the stereo;
I'm in disrepair.
There's a room, filled with colorful,
heat of bodies and flare.
But the ones I'm with
don't know I'm there.
I'll sit,
in between the air.
My feet are shuffling
across the green,
but your arm's like chain mail,
you've got ahold of me.
And later, when I find my head
sleeping between your knees,
I'll sit,
consoled by serene.
I keep imagining
that brisky hue
where we'll share a bowl of cereal,
long overdue.
When you warm my palms,
use not one hand, but two.
And we'll sit.
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Daniel Grear Fayetteville, Arkansas
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