fulmah
02-08-2005, 08:00 PM
Harsh light from high-beam in oncoming lane
had my palm up in an attempt to block
and imagine if I came blazing that way,
she’d think I was the second coming
and get down on her knees, pray,
ask forgiveness for her sins,
and not dare make eye contact
cos that would be disaster.
This girl from central Tuscany,
her long, loose curls intoxicate,
her heart pumps thunder, and kid you not,
she alluded wanting volcanic love
that came erupting hard… fast,
and sure can do, long as she’s got
a circle-circle, dot-dot.
at her place, I thought, oh my god,
a girl with a commodore sixty-four,
a mixer, two guitars and microphones!
…and all this time I’ve been thinking
soul-mates were make-believe.
you know how conditions turn surreal
and your brain files, frame by frame,
amplified audio-visuals?
Well, I know I’ll never forget
moonlight in angles through Venetian blinds
casting lined contrast on hardwood tiles
that her heels had riotous reverb against,
that overdubbed Sci-Fi’s Point Pleasant
and the murmur from a waterfall table lamp--
she started laughing,
told me she wouldn’t either…
fuck! I said that out loud.
she kissed me,
saying that first bit was sweet,
pointed at me, then at her room,
curled her lips up in playful smile.
and it should’ve lasted only thirty minutes
but that was more than three hours ago
and she keeps using her fingernails,
telling me, don’t stop cos you’ll go
and I know you’ll never call again;
but that’d make this a one night stand
and how could I go on living then?
I just want to know I’m not dreaming
that tomorrow I won’t wake up alone
with the faint smell of her perfume
a cruel illusion above the bed.
it’d be better to been blinded
by those oncoming lights
and crash, dead.
had my palm up in an attempt to block
and imagine if I came blazing that way,
she’d think I was the second coming
and get down on her knees, pray,
ask forgiveness for her sins,
and not dare make eye contact
cos that would be disaster.
This girl from central Tuscany,
her long, loose curls intoxicate,
her heart pumps thunder, and kid you not,
she alluded wanting volcanic love
that came erupting hard… fast,
and sure can do, long as she’s got
a circle-circle, dot-dot.
at her place, I thought, oh my god,
a girl with a commodore sixty-four,
a mixer, two guitars and microphones!
…and all this time I’ve been thinking
soul-mates were make-believe.
you know how conditions turn surreal
and your brain files, frame by frame,
amplified audio-visuals?
Well, I know I’ll never forget
moonlight in angles through Venetian blinds
casting lined contrast on hardwood tiles
that her heels had riotous reverb against,
that overdubbed Sci-Fi’s Point Pleasant
and the murmur from a waterfall table lamp--
she started laughing,
told me she wouldn’t either…
fuck! I said that out loud.
she kissed me,
saying that first bit was sweet,
pointed at me, then at her room,
curled her lips up in playful smile.
and it should’ve lasted only thirty minutes
but that was more than three hours ago
and she keeps using her fingernails,
telling me, don’t stop cos you’ll go
and I know you’ll never call again;
but that’d make this a one night stand
and how could I go on living then?
I just want to know I’m not dreaming
that tomorrow I won’t wake up alone
with the faint smell of her perfume
a cruel illusion above the bed.
it’d be better to been blinded
by those oncoming lights
and crash, dead.