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OC: we met in an afternoon and my boots were still those of winter

September 28, 2011 6:11 pm GMT -5

between the thunderstorm that shadowed you
from the heels of spoken poetry to my bed
and the heated sunfire that lit me across the street
from where you waited, an angle away from the last light

a romance of elements
has made itself available to us

i sense its presence while i tentatively
circle the perimeter,
inquisitive and unsure.

these doors and drugs and laughter
are intoxicating playthings, rendering our moments
saturated
and so i get carried away with flavors inspired
cracking through my thick survivor’s glaze

i want to go to japan and morocco and timbuktu with you
watch coconut bubbles pop colors in your bath
i can be the one who reads your words.
i can be your southern summer.

i am constantly traveling, even when the satellites
would categorize me immobile
but your gaze renders me (still)

between the thunderstorm that shadowed you
from the heels of spoken poetry to my bed
and the heated sunfire that lit me across the street
from where you waited, an angle away from the last light

a romance of elements
has made itself available to us

i sense its presence while i tentatively
circle the perimeter,
inquisitive and unsure.

these doors and drugs and laughter
are intoxicating playthings, rendering our moments
saturated
and so i get carried away with flavors inspired
cracking through my thick survivor’s glaze

i want to go to japan and morocco and timbuktu with you
watch coconut bubbles pop colors in your bath
i can be the one who reads your words.
i can be your southern summer.

i am constantly traveling, even when the satellites
would categorize me immobile
but your gaze renders me (still)

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31 thoughts on “OC: we met in an afternoon and my boots were still those of winter”

  2. You seem to be unaware of the three definitions of the word gay.

    1) homosexual
    2) happy
    3) Jesus Christ you are massively fucking gay!

    Hope this helps in the future.

  8. If you’re going to post poetry make it good, like this limerick I wrote.

    There once was a man from Decatur
    Who was a chronic masturbator
    He had to quit
    So went celibate
    And the withdrawal sent him back to his creator!
    But seriously, just don’t post poetry, fag.

  9. If you’re going to post poetry make it good, like this limerick I wrote.

    There once was a man from Decatur
    Who was a chronic masturbator
    He had to quit
    So went celibate
    And the withdrawal sent him back to his creator!
    But seriously, just don’t post poetry, fag.

  13. We’re all lame at heart no matter how much we build ourselves up; at least he’s being honest with what he is.

    Poetry is essentially lyrics without music- you’ve likely sung along to words like this at least once in your lifetime.

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