poetic_star's picture

shamrock eyes

Dublin stars play tag between
Rowan leaves as the plastic
party lights in my room
match their sad glow.
And my dreams are
made of notebook paper,
Adam, cigarette burns
and broken frames of
your stained-berry smile,
glistening with last summer's dewdrops.

I have your favorite pocketknife
stashed away in my closet
under a pile of old wool sweaters
and yearbook photos that
our folks never saw.
Remember, friend,
the carved symbols we left
on that park bench
and the crayon marks, also?
I suppose they're still there,
though I haven't gone to check

poetic_star's picture

Birthday Stars

There's a monster growling under my bed
but I lost interest in him ages ago
and now you're the only thought
occupying my mind in
the vanilla wallpaper darkness.
Late November clings
to your lashes and birthday stars
collide into the lark pond,
their orange flames
resemble romantic
suicide attempts glowing
near our neighborhood.

Violin strings mark your palms
and I stare as our hands brush
and snow appears in puffs on
the rooftops of old colonial homes.
5th Avenue was built for all
the drunken socialites but
you and I wander here because
we have nothing to lose,

poetic_star's picture

New York, Wishful Thinking and Casual Sex

Maybe this time the pale violets will catch fire
instead of the tablecloth and my mother will
come out of her study and yell for me to do
something about the flames eating our house.
Then I'll have to call you on the phone and say,
"Not tonight, David."

You're a clever tease with a drama club smile,
an almost perfect posture that screams,
"Believe in me or else I'll melt into oblivion."
Especially in the beginning, I thought you
were conceited, but at the same time,
I dreamed drunkenly about tracing
the curve of your jaw and causing
color to form on your cheeks.

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