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
in.

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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