Crocodile Tree Face

My coal eyes are in your bathroom mirror, mascara slits with black driveways underneath and it shoots me straight back into a time, half a year of blind light, the light between blinds, blinded by the blind light of half a year of patronising sunrises and alarm tones like crying babies. You are downstairs and I am blazed, blazing in a burning blur but I could have more and no doubt will to help this night grow, it’s what we do when we see each other like its the only thing in common we share.

My reflection washes its hands and I watch it in a moment that feels separated. Tiles are the floor, are the walls but I won’t be able to recall the patterns of them later despite the time spent in front of them as the background, as the floor that held me up all those times with my thighs and head shaking. They vibrate now with a deep heartbeat from you underneath and I get the funny feeling to leave, to drive from you for days just to have a banjo played to me by a sweet stranger in a trucker cap with hair that sticks out the sides of it. Leaving’s always easy because there are so many people in this world. No one is special and love is replicable. It’s what makes every moment spent in your presence so damn meaningful.

The very useless things we use to keep us safe could just be the truest things we’ll ever know but we never know of their truth or the sagging weight of their lie while we’re swirling so deep in the moment of them. To know it, to try to dissect it in these moments would be like trying to catch the pieces of a dissolving asprin in a butterfly net. So I step outside with a cigarette instead and let the crocodile face in the trees smile down at the sweet disarray of you later between my knees and I suddenly know as well as it does that the permanence of this shitty nothingness will continue through to the tomorrow of another six months times’ Wednesday if I let it.

Your words of the moment are torturous and your words of the moment are translated later by disappointed retrospect. Your sweet, sweet nothings are the moans of ecstasy that mean everything gasped in the moment but later when the dick is off the g-spot seem silly. And they melt like chocolate on the tongue as you speak them, as they hit the walls of my post war home, as you sing them. Engulf me with them, make me long for the permanence of us in our short bursts of time that we draw out at the convenience of you. Because the sky likes them so much it too it casually makes us rainbows and halos for the moon.

And next door Mikey is bluing with his misso again, it makes me think of you every time. He almost burnt the house down making popcorn the other morning and it makes me think of you every time. He went all the way to Casino to pick up his daughter in his white Ford Festiva and he said it was like driving a goat truck. I am so pragmatic when it comes to you I waited a whole month of not fucking being able to wait to tell you that.