Baby Blues

Armored and veiled with

sleek denial and lace-whipped

mechanisms against

saucy saccharine smiles.

I laugh and say we will never be

to sling the slurs and slips of

starry eyes.

We play one game of balancing

calculated coyness.

So I keep walking along to the

syncopated beats in my head

and the lanky boy next door

stares in disbelief.

No baby blues I say

tonight’s party and bullshit

Keep your champion beer pong title

while I cut blunt white lines

between us.

I blast Beastie Boys

to block your BK swagger

sauntering towards me,

No baby blues I say.

I need to shower and blaze.

Cleaning on a Sunday Afternoon

And I’ll find a way to work
through the layers of deceit
to dig an excavation of wayward
delusions entrapped beneath us all.

As we ceremoniously rupture
the mortal receptors given
before birth, destroying
the sheer lining of living content
and never willing to say the words
nearly spilling from a fountain
of jagged half truths.

And the swooning snows slowly
covering the basket weaved welts.