Rolling, Rolling

Rolling, Rolling

I hope to be a memory for you,

a moving photograph full of smiles

and my beloved, loved laugh.

Your me,

is bigger and brighter than any LED.

And I give thanks that you’ll never, never see

my shoulders crack

to grow wider. Cus I’m no Atlas, no freeze frame

holds these bones still, no.

No vines, instead orthopedic and cut hair

and crooked bones upon bones upon bones and tarred ash skin.

My shell now a stranger. Thanks to another king.

Instead all I have is my rolling hips and my rolling lips.

Presumed and just there one day.

To brake use of this body somehow.

It now requires movement and others.

But you, you know me. Knew me before all ill,

with turquoise eyes and Poseidon body, my skin became your fountain.

Of course I never let my hair or sword down for you,

no my shutters closed

and shield up, up.

Instead I’ll prison you in the cold gloomy vaults of my memory.

Where I guard you with my ribs and lungs

and that something just that something which beats beats beats...

But those sweet beats are neither here nor there in the downpour

I tread through.

Instead I trudge through harsh commanding beats

rolling my hips and lips.

But maybe, maybe,

I’ve convinced myself you are nothing but a nice myth filled up

so I have something to love.

But of course you mutated in me, a stubble clad jawline, your tall shape now forming with those lips that belong to my rolling hips.

Leaving your images I’ve had to erect an altar to worship memories

and half fantasies that probably never happened.

Dreading that you just made yourself up in my head,

dragged yourself up from something in the aether,

ghost dust shaped into a man.

Instead I’ll comfort myself with your ghostly shape

cold in this island moving from our home in the flatlands.

North Seas upon north seas

making me roll roll, my rolling hips.

Towards another, that will never crack what you stole open,

your treasure chest left empty.

My Souls virginity is yours and I handed it over as a token.

They can take my flesh, the worthless case.

Worthless. That’s all they want, even these empty dark eyes

that foresaw me scrubbing away

blood and tears off a floor.

On Sundays only Sundays.

Because sometimes you see,

I wonder if I ceased to be? Would something be

in you

cut or would you roll over and further cut

that which you took during that late summer flight.

Because you can further see that funerals have no value,

no, it is in the unknown as I veil past your reach

that your pain would be sweet

for me,

that stab I wish to inflict as I sleep finally.

The flesh was never ours beloved,

only light and names of sugar

and my tongue never tasted yours,

your skin so different neither explored mine.

But actually, was actually just a cold marble of memorise.

My hot heartbeats

only ask for one wish

for a moments, six seconds of an ache

for you

dedicated to me.

Grey mud will then covers the rest,

and spirits soar over aquarius age seas  

for me and for you.

All left then will just be rolling, rolling best.

Saturday 13th April 2013