Royal Phoenix

Royal Phoenix Hair (Edit)

Undone curlicues
and suitcase clothes
color themselves
on the bottom of
the hotel bedroom floor.

You’d think ten-thousand moments could blurry one’s vision,
but it only makes my nights stronger
like a hellish fever
blown over New York City’s streets.

Closing a pair of blinds, I black out a silver dawn, wearing smoke as suited armor. I question this essence, chanting:

Oh where has my love gone, oh where has my love gone,
I suppose it rests fate within the lines on your hands.

Constellate me.

My bedroom—a catacomb of distressed dreams
holds the key
to whatever they say I’m supposed to believe

But I haven’t found much luck in belief.
I grew up with a boy named Scream.

He tends to laugh at your lightest musings. How amusing.

And every time I see empathy, he floods emotion in front of me.
In front of me,
an ocean deepens

where my heart knows tragedy; I wish he’d latch onto some mercy.

Scared of depths; nearly half dead
he becomes aware that no ending seems clear

when I’m with you.

Saturdays go mad.
Sun-showers always lack
a different pungent touch:
finer than chalk;
wiser than tongues
pounding brackish concrete.

When I’m with you,

sure enough
my feathers lose their cuffs
and my safeguard won’t shut up.
Somebody started the defibrillator rush.

A phoenix rises from my chest.
Royal blue at its best, your breath
takes me southward—I feel blessed—
refreshed—we remain intact.


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