Ain't nobody perfect

-----

I don't remember days,
I remember black stilettos
laying on trampolines in tears
walks home from downtown
stumbling under chandeliers
I remember
Sitting on your front porch
Chain smoking with your sister
Falling into chain fences
Dancing under oak trees
sweating under tanning oil
Tears in my ginger beer
I remember
The twist in your beard,
You're in my pulse, you fuck.

-----

I wrote that,

-loch

Black my lungs

-----

Curly haired
James dean-frank Sinatra hybrid,
Stop calling me baby.
'Allie-cat'' everytime I walk down the hall
another blonde girl on your arm,
We are few and far between.
Stop calling me darling,
Everytime you light up
Your shitty l&m
Stop calling me honey,
Slinging shots in the back.
Curly haired wiry
Tattoo covered gangster,
Stop walking me home
You are bad for me.

-----

That poem is mine.
-loch.

Don't leave me tounge tied

We stay up all night

Feeling horribly nostalgic.
-loch

Fortune days

How fitting is it that this song reminds me of you?
-loch

I'm not afraid of anything now

God I hate being in love.

-loch

I had a heart then

''You're a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen''

-loch

can't do any more

What I've been up to lately —

"Kissing,"
I say to you as
we stand under rainclouds,
you with six pack in hand,
"kissing is just a touch
lips playing,
like talking
only closer,"
and you kiss me
lightly,
since you just ate a meatball from your spaghetti
still tupperwared in my fridge.
You say, "kissing means something,"
hand resting on my hips,
mouth so close I catch
wafts of garlic.
I tell you,
"No,
other things do."

———————

I had forgotten what it felt like,
nights alone with you —
I guess, not really alone,
they dance around us
marionettes
"Baby you're the only live one in this club."
I had forgotten what it feels like
to be simple with you
to be alive with you
to be myself with you.
We drink and we fight
and we fuck and we laugh and
we cry.
Why did you remind me? ...
How did I forget?

———————

And I am laying next to you now.
On my front porch,
and we've watched blues brothers
and you're smoking parliments
and you with your NPR and your
one-liners
getting to me.
A Marlboro between my pointer and my middle finger
lights, cherry hot,
and you speak,
"You keep up with my rampant narcissism,
that's rare"
and I say
"Lets go to bed"
And I am laying next to you now.


I'm becoming too starry-eyed for my own good.
-Loch

However far away

I fucking love the cure

-loch

Glove compartment

New writing spot for the win! Moved out of my first apartment, I'm feeling pretty nostalgic. We'll see what happens in this one.
-loch

You bought the dream

I am sandwiched between a punk rock waiter who is unsure of nothing except for a constant constraint to travel and a love of tattoos with a half hearted political agenda; a Marxist masochist who's only real truth is an intense refusal to admit his own possession of morals, who would rather sell himself short to give himself more time than commit himself to one of an envious amount of talents; and a bartender who has shrouded himself in static pseudo reality and is desperately slamming on the breaks before screeching head on into the real world before he has the chance to order another round.

Someone order me a lonestar and bum me a cigarette. This summer will be brutal and hot in more than one sense of the word, so I suppose I should try and be the same.

-loch