Drinking, happy, or depressed.
Often two out of the three.
Can’t write a poem worth a damn
when none of the above.
I need this one thing.
Do you have it?
The sum of all parts.
Having to stop before the start
because one more is not enough
A beast of a cat sits on my lap;
I feel his purr, all 20 lbs. of love
Jamie xx, of The xx, plays a solo set at the Bluebird Theater in Denver on Aug. 28.
I got to review the Jamie xx show here in Denver last night. Jamie xx is a producer and multi-instrumentalist with band The xx. You can read my full review here.
Grinding my teeth
my comfort zone
moving my body
my mind goes faster
the attractor magnet
put me on
put me on continuous
with your acid beats
those beats put me in a trance
they make me dance
I rarely dance
your ghost whispers in my ear
but I heed no caution
losing myself in a sea of other bodies
do not tell me the appropriate dose
I want to find out for myself
think of how different
this experience would be
the sprinklers are on in the cemetery
We like parts of people, but not the whole;
just don’t go asking me to change
These words, I believe them when I write;
but when I speak them, it’s all lies
i wasn’t planning on drinking a six pack tonight
but this poem wasn’t about to write itself
you know, the one about lowering inhibitions
and finding myself at the bottom of a bottle
the one where I write a few lines
find some lightning
and blow my own mind
then wake up with a headache
and the need to piss my very soul out
then try to return to the angel wings of sleep
and beep beep beep — start all over again
you know, the one about being a punctual peter
This house is my house
I take full responsibility
for the mess
the dirty laundry
the dishes in the sink
the cat turds on the floor
the leaky faucets
the unflushed toilets
the unfinished basement
and the blood on the walls
the paint chipping
the fences leaning
the pets buried in the backyard
the rusted nails sticking out,
drawing the blood of
and water damage
the creaks in the awnings
the magazines in the attic
and the demon underneath the bed
the loaded gun
the locked doors
and oh god that smell
the fucked-up food-stained carpet
the car up on blocks on the chipped apart driveway
the blown apart mailbox
the air creeping through the gaps in the windows
and what lurks outside at night
the heart beneath the floorboards, still beating.
the ghosts of everyone who’s lived here before.
I am not sorry.