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
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
I AM VERY DISSAPOINTED IN YOU
I LOVE YOU
I HATE YOU.
Hard to miss.