Run through these streets with me with a bunch of bottles.
Let us take a sack of spray paint and spray paint over the paintings.
Let us dance through Paris;
kiss in the shadow of the Louvre,
break its windows to crawl inside to
scroll manifesto’s over the canvases,
write Morse’ code on the sculptures,
roll a sleeping bag on the floors to sleep inside of, tell one another a story by flashlight;
unearth everything from before,
bury each other inside the other,
feed grapes to the ants,
light fireworks in the fists of sleeping kings; kill a monarch.
Break back outside and find a wall to do all these same things to;
up and upon against, break the bricks, climb over them,
and when the sirens scream,
laugh loud,
hold my hand,
and run fast.
Run through the streets with me with a bunch of bottles,
a bucket of gasoline,
a mouthful of matches,
and a pocket full of paintings
and a fresh faced batch of policemen to chase the fires we are lighting,
with a laugh and a shoulder of gold.
And I thought that the museums where cemeteries where the dead paid the walls to hold what we had so that we could walk through what we once were,
where children take their skulls to turn into gardens,
to pluck for forefathers and farther stars,
that on some nights resemble an armless mother praying for her arms back.
And on others resemble the cold stones that we tear from our jaws to fling at the black gloved riot soldiers.
Where every giggle is filled with lust; let us laugh this night away and I will fuck you like you were a prayer.
I could save me by having my mouth around you,
and I will hold you afterwards like you were the pulpit and I was the sky,
and this love that danced between that hardness was a telephone line of holiness that those two things spoke through.
Take me into your heart like I was a saint,
and you were a face of forgiveness blooming in a valley destined to sink further.
Be a river with me;
Be the storm;
the front porch;
the bend in the path;
the heat in the south;
the heat in the boot;
be a boot full of banjo strings;
a fist full of written songs;
a mouthful of chocolate dust.
When they come to take us,
stab them between the eyes.
Do not take your hand from around mine.
Make a fist with the other, and punch spines like guilt. Spit, sweat, kiss them like a grandmother. How will open mouthed terror love filled?
And when they come to tie us down, to strap us in, to shave our hair
and ask to hear penance come from inside us
You say with me loud and trembling,
but loud and clear. “I have already emptied myself.
I have emptied myself.
I am a picture waiting to be filled with the night.
A bowl for plums; those plums have come.
I have emptied myself.
I kissed regret goodbye,
took the hands of another backwards angel,
and rode backwards into the rain
watching our footsteps gallop away behind us.”
When the hangman of morrow comes to hang the sun in its daily execution say this with me:
“Sarah we are apples,
our love is an arrow;
I’m unbuttoning my shirt;
painting a circle over my heart,
please.. just shoot straight.”
izzy806
areudirty
2087
kianamaiart
romaincrisis
germansingergirl
