Easy breezy does it, ladies

Wouldn't they like to seem -easy going-

unlike the rest of us

Well, I said, that's mine to contend with

Want to pry it out of (me?)

Like my hips while they jerk conversationally?

Yes, this is my boyfriend, my blank canvas to stare at

(he's vacant, very colorless)

While the stranger in the corner is shining ELECTRIC blue.

of, for, if the touch of a stranger.

Hypothetically speaking, of course

So, as I was slinking about in the backtrack

I remembered the series by an artist I once knew

It was called Waterworks.

It was piece after piece shoved down your throat

Like the intensive care wing, where they (used) to let us out

But there were pictures of docks and kayaks and lakes and frosted...waterworks.

True to its name, the series (could, would, should) make you cry -tears coming out of your chest-

But a the first glance I stayed silence (I was in a graying gallery station)

The air stood threadbare and corporeal in the place

Which was utterly distracting from the intimacy of the pieces.

The butterflies in my stomach

Perched on the edges, ready to fly

But that colorless boyfriend of mine held my arm in his

Not my hand, you see, holding hands with him is like

Holding macaroni?

Slips right through...

So he clutched my arm and I reverted my wild thoughts down to a POUNDING roar.

Brave face (was it so brave? More of a common cowardice) Honey smiles

More like sickly sweet. I never did liked sugary things.

So, the butterflies settled down for a moment,

their gossamer wings folded tight

And I thought back, once more, to those days

When I had only been to an art gallery with my parents

(to get some god damn culture)

back when I did ever (BIG) thing daddy said

His black hair never lied, that tight lipped smile spelling out disappointment at every (victory, defeat?)

And as I thought about how I liked where I was I also was reminded of when I wanted to return to my home

Where the electric currents run invisible on human spirits, filling us all to the brim

Something, perhaps too tangible for the likes of -us-

So I floated along back into the present, filed my thoughts under

"Celtic shit no one wants to hear about"

Shut my mouth

and continued to wander about (purposely, aimlessly) the gallery

Not at all enjoying the silence or the art

But "boyfriend" never did seem to mind. As long as he (could, must, SHOULDN'T) grip onto me with his macaroni hands, his smile never seemed to fade form his colorless face.

He had tight lips like my dad too

Lips that can speak

Not just talk, but really speak

Like the flow of everything just isn't enough

Those lips just had to give the game away every time

It's like putting a microphone to anything he said




Hard to miss.