Crush

Sigma detente meets at the fanzine

A word swings a crush, I stuff it down fancy.

Bring silence fruition, schism my blush--

I’m staring through the object of fantasy. Uncanny.

She’s dotting whispers in operatic veils. I face the

Chicago skyline behind scrapes the abrupt-

Falsetto quills stitching Phoenix guts inert.

Thetas-by-theta rayed cathedral adducts charm.

Just wall me off. Hero be-complexed, sense to

Perception. My thoughts make the sound. Vibrato smoked into-

Shroud. Acoustics race gothic crowns I clutch.

Defeatist crops to the acre sponge iambic to my tongue,

She’s phonetic at once. She’s poetic when loved.

I'm the Mercury swirling this double cup. Fucked.

When does the problem become a solvent to blood?

These days pass my gait before footprints squash the mud.

No rejection is needed; the tactile ever-present in

Nature, hence self-erasure, hence resonant-self debugger.

She seems attractive-- thetas fray-by-ziggurat.

My stars align from a rhythm too long to see as fact.

Perception breaks down sense, process astray, hence

Resonant self is love, my poet’s tongue spires the bluff.

To look down’s hard enough. My reflection in the mud.

Sways the bigger man through starstruck comeuppance,

Struts down— and up again: Phoenix-wings intact.

My mind becomes the theme to attack.

Like Narcissus, it’s all an act.

Just get her number. Say she’s beautiful, don't stutter.

Parallel charm, Laplace shaking his cover.

Ripping me under. Title wise as its function.

Signifier-to-sign, I’d just bring her down to the gutter.

New Dawn of the Dead Man making the same mistakes:

My comfort in silence begs attention for shame, the

Comfort in buying time wards off the date. A

Flustered mind chants the veneer. Then it breaks.

My body's cloaked with variable truce-for-pride.

I’m happy as I allow, nothing inside.

I keep my words shuttered and paint the stains in the air, staying at bay.

Hence farming glass in my coven for signifiers ain’t fair.

Hence, tell her she’s beautiful, make the object so real.

The Sigma allots semantics, I’m irrigating the farce.

Theater of choice: security or rejection.

Maybe I’m my own reflection: a trap of my own detention.