A morning of beautiful boys

I wake with a sun,


the most beautiful boy in the world.
I have yet to drive you away, I
mention, with my paranoia and
clinging acknowledgement


of scars? No-one has ever
been faithful to me, and so I
killed her with my dead morning calls.
Because I couldn't believe her.

I woke up and trailed
my fingers over my chest.
It made a ghost of sound.
Bright sidewalk chalks.

I was whole all morning long.

You know what they say
about the beautiful boys
and the cracked: we are
their shadows. We run cold
across their beds. Veins
concurrent with
their sex. Who
could be faithful to
a hole?

I want you to know
he's not coming back.

Look into my eyes.
It's the only way you'll know if
I'm telling the truth.

I told the boy I wanted everything
to wake her up to know the stars
to parallel with her a stiller
stream beneath which blankets
working fucking stars to flick
you're not my dad off my silk skin,

to tell that kid Mike and I saw
all alone in his front yard beating
a tree with a branch that the branch
should be forgotten, but the tree

needs you to sit at its
roots, in the shade. There's nothing
to be afraid of.

We live without
pasts here.



=====


associate editor, _sidereality

http://www.sidereality.com/

——–

http://www.lewislacook.com/

tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html









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