My love, Of seasons of love, in the season of tulips gone wrong, The aggravation of years And pathetic mediocrity A scorn was born And so came me- A child of tulips in a season gone so wrong. Immune to the species of hospitality Everything was born in us to go up in flames. Even the most sincere of drunks Would've made wine with the fruits of ruination And we were no different. Dispatched Percocet overdoses- Love blooms in strange places and languages In fungi and in fruit fields, In Sonoma and in Somalia all the same. In the garden of Exodus we would leave and return to a thousand times, We sharpened our self mutilation And made each other bleed. Jet planes and passing Gods on their way to certain deaths, The passing made us all the more complete, Some love affairs are born in the gashes between mountains and skin. Some names know before they're spoken. They will end being whispered followed by, The words Open your beautiful eyes! A winter of shredding razor sharp snow, Running toward and through the stained glass. If you die doing something violently holy, Does it God sign your pass into his paradise at last? My love, Of seasons of wrong, Perhaps I was born to meet this fate. Born in a season of tulips gone so wrong. Born in the time of the mysterious death of the bees The beautiful impulsive, The reckless do have a certain hue, And I cannot hide the blood that covers me/ Vaguely malignant, Of course, you would come to find me a sweet surprise- Your beautiful car crash Finally.... Your excuse to die.
Oak Roads: Poetry and Musings 