Untitled 8/31/12

"Black."

When your tongue is uttering syllables,
Which form convoluted sentences
Describing the both of us,
I am focused on whatever 
Image is on the TV screen.
I'm not really paying attention
But it's a good cover when imagining
A murder/suicide.

"White."

Slinking lower.
Spine crooked.
I am a victim
Responsible for the ulcers
Leaking blood on the floor
Of my stomach.
You are the catalyst
Erasing my chapped mouth 
With perfunctory statements.
I will never talk about myself because 
It's narcissistic.
I will never tell you anything about myself
Because you're not my biographer.
And never will be.


"Grey."

In the lull in between a smile and a frown,
I see a B-17 flying behind the backs of our eyes
Dropping bombs on strategic Nazi war factories
Located in our frontal lobes.
Avoiding flak.
Absorbing bullets from the Luftwaffe fighters.
Painted metal encrusted in flames falling from the sky 
Down the hole in your throat.
The resonance of self-defence
Is lost somewhere
In the acquiescence 
Between my mind 
And vocal cords.