red-rose revolver

twelve smoking roses
blowing in the wind,
behind the thorns that wined themselves
around my head;
those blind words you shed
like the serpent’s lament
can only pass as braille for so long,
before your tears warp
the layers of cardboard vows
into a sound of metaphor-
before the here and now drown
in-sight;
without a second glance
to hand the first
a better look,
I took a change and kissed the hook-

she called me her heart,
and I believed in every breath of it,
because she wore an overcoat
of stolen sleeves
that had been sown into an art,
just so she couldn’t start to freeze
-it’s just too bad, that November I lied
in a pile of bliss and ignored-ants
that danced on the backside of my rotten rinds,
as the fruits blackened our eyes-
and we packed for a round trip
with square baggage and our hearts out
of their plastic bags;
and as the cruise-control ship set sail,
the strings you attached
were never unlatched from the air

-by the 5th continent we stepped
your world was spun so tightly around my throat,
that I could taste the rope
between my open tonsils
and a final hope
-before I stepped off that ledge,
and landed back inside your familiar head
with one hand tied behind my
laugh.

I tried to keep the spark alive
-by burning bridges;
lighter in hand,
twenty-five cent smile in my pocket,
and gauze in the bottles we swallowed
and tossed in to the barge
of coughing hearts,
where our ship sank the day
we christened the hull with molotov
kisses

-a maiden voyage
replayed,
for the sake of second visits,
to a place
I could once stand
to live with.

wearing those roses at the bottom
of your open barrel-
the stares wont save us,
they’re only getting old-
and the tombstones are still waiting
for your pretty roses
to finish digging the graves
with fraying clocks and broken
hands
that asked the day to dance,
before it had a chance to be spoken.

so keep on, keep loading every other chamber
with those fucking rose peddles,
and we’ll continue spinning
through the seasons until someone
begins to wither;

we can both wear the roll
of coaster, but my stomach still turns
on the tracks I followed
up the backside of your spine
-because I left the footprints,
but couldn’t wear the same shoes to continue
through the forest
of fingers that hid your crying eyes
in my snoring spring
-that’s still sleeping through your bloom.
and as your peddles shed
along my bedroom floor,
the door still looks to your picture
for a kiss goodnight,
before it runs to bed-
and shakes the rafters
that turn your train
directly through my thoughtless head;

the conductors dead
-with a broken throttle
I wear around my neck we speed ahead,
without the means to stop cold.

and maybe I really like the pace,
and the taste of wind
at 200mph truly is sweeter
-but every bitter fly on the wall I’ve swallowed
contradicts our nutrasweet yesterdays,
spit like a gun shot-
glass for each and every single mile
our relationship has stumbled
over itself,
just to see you smile.

I’m still waiting with a twisted gut,
for the hammer to finally leave a cut
-while the withered trigger in her eye
pulls-
as I’m sucking off the barrel
with a crooked smile

-because I can’t even lie,
and try to say I don’t like the taste
of metal,

but I’m growing tired
of this revolver always picking apart my brain,
as the world revolves around her
just the same.

trying to take the aim I had,
Ill keep slipping along this trigger
-while wearing your rose on my forehead
like a badge of all stupidity-
simply because it hurts less than tripping over
the thorns you’ve left in my bed
-so instead,
I wear 2am while the bullet hole
enters my head.

not anymore-

I’ve caught my final bullet
from the pistol you’ve been holding-
behind the bouquet of red roses
I bought for us to plant in the garden
you could hardly tend.

the lawn looked so beautiful,
but this home is filled with sand,
and the hands of time
have not gone easy on its ego
-but I tried my best to thread
the weeds that bled through your overcoat
into something red
for the envious to wear like sex
and comfort,
when the mirror looks back
and doesn’t love her

-but my fingers are too blistered
to keep digging for what I can’t even
guarantee I’ll find
beneath the whispers.

so you can wear my spring
through autumn,
and call August the new November
-but I’ve changed the number
for the sake of proper endings;
and those flowers can only drown
your insecurities in so many nouns
before the adjectives spill out
on to the winter floor,
and your breath freezes as it leaves
your chest open on the sleeve
it was conceived-
spilling over
another semi-self inflicted wound
spit too deep,
from a fresh grown
bullet thrown from your very
own
red-rose revolver.