Sour Beauty
Life is like angry sex,
something that satisfies and forces me to clench my fists at the same time.
Its filled with naked skin, cussing, climax rolling in alleyway grime.
The true love fantasy is painted by loneliness
an unloved hand swinging brush strokes.
Real love is linked by chain link,
found in puddles and gutters.
I’m talking sun up to sun rise,
bare feet planted straddling yellow street lines.
No clouds. That is where fantasy lays.
No clouds.
They are really lined in cocaine,
when gone nothing but the torture of a sunny day.
I find beauty in ugliness
a flower turns sick in my presence,
wilts in my essence,
I gaze at it in death and take a picture.
You tell me to relax my face,
allow the lines of my forehead to seep back into my skin.
I squint for the ugly
like living behind scratched glasses,
noting memories of scratched past.
My gaze is heavy like black bagged New York City garbage
my dreams are locked in the trunk of a 1980 Volvo filled with bullet holes
balancing on a pile of our future’s dirty diapers.
I find beauty in ugliness
so it’s hard for my face to relax.
Like Atlas I hold countries between my hairline and brow.
There’s too much to know.
Making life like angry sex screaming my way into the gorgeous.
You are magnificent
because you reveal your contradiction for me.
You could be a sweet fantasy but,
you spit gravel from your cheeks
your voice scratched with thin slivers of glass,
you blink rubber tire shredded eyelashes.
I can’t feel clouds,
can’t see true love picture books in my day to day.
But your flesh feigns no store bought fantasy.
You’re sarcasm
splattered over long body and gray eyes,
the metal in your iris’,
the scars hidden by lace,
the brown beer bottle bits
beneath your nails that I revel in as I hold your hand.
I slide my soul
beneath your coat
and feel cold steel sweating like skin.
I feel hard love. The only kind that exists.
I taste rust in your armpits,
feel your knees slice my palms jagged.
I revel in the reality of it.
We both feel the cracks in sidewalks with bare heels and snap pictures of death.
Black on black is colorful,
our snapshots compose reality as hard as falling on curbs
crashing into car doors,
fucking in gutters.
Together we find beauty in ugliness,
We were forced face first into the sidewalk,
then kissed with mouthfuls of wet cement
and stroked statues with our tongues.
You and I overcome,
live in humble, ugly day to day
and love.