this poem is a line from transformers.

use 105 shells.
bring the rain.

after midnight.

poor, sad boy.
poor, sad boy, curly hair and
you can’t talk straight,
you can’t walk straight, white hands fluttering,
folding like paper flowers after midnight,
magnolias on their trees.

poor, strong boy,
dark hair and long words.
rubbing eyelashes into your cheeks
(my symbol of longevity),
watching the curve of your spine,
poor, strong boy.

poor, strong boy,
arms like steel and the wide green sea –
wine-dark, but nonetheless beautiful.

poor, sad boy, purple and green
like a bruise and the marks of hands upon your body,
purple and green, blue and the colors of long days of sadness.

poor, sad boy,
ripping you apart with my teeth,
white hands folding like origami flowers in the rain,
origami flowers opening to the sun, sadness and wilted paper.

do you want me: a sort-of haiku

and now i say yes without hesitation,
when even then i could not answer truthfully.

i’d fuck you, and slide in your arms,
and hope you’d tell me something beautiful,
and then it would be worth it, though it was already.

paper flowers.

i cannot dream or linger anymore.

waiting rooms: a sestina.

i have only ever heard this song in waiting rooms,
he said, verse
falling ungracefully, naked,
from his mouth. lines
of creation
are not as easily opened as my window

in the rain, as easily broken as the window
in my wallpapered room.
i have only heard this song in waiting, he said, creation
twining in his hair, verses
of a song accenting the lines
around his mouth. unadulterated, naked

instability balances carefully on the bridge of his nose, naked
and walking in front of a window.
lines
fill up the page, and i have only ever heard this song in waiting rooms.
[the chorus and verse
of plot twists back and forth.] i am creation

she says, i AM creation.
i have never heard this song, says she, naked
and angry, her verses
breaking my fingers and cracking our window.
she crams this room
with words, punctuation, lines

that float above our heads, dream-like and cremated. lines
of ash coat the floor, creation
animated, and we have only ever heard this song in waiting rooms.
naked
we fall, covered in soot, windows
smeared with twisted verse.

passages and verse
surpass me and the lines
of his body echo the light through our dust-covered window.
i am creation
she states, watching us twine, naked,
and she has never heard this song, in any room.

our verse, this is not creation,
but she screams within the lines, broken, naked,
and watching through the window. we have only ever heard this song in waiting rooms.