I'd like to consider whistles
faced with throwing everything away
and everything beautiful functions systematically
in a deep-pocketed sky
where hip-to-hip lovers walk as if it works for them like paperwork.
Whistles in over-estimated bundles across the face and
I'd like to consider everything anyway,
right down to tiny pieces such as pushpins
pushed into gossip.
(Think curiosity and the chat about dreams,
like James Dean, that other certainty, breathing curiously in my head.
I squeeze my eyes into loose keyholes.
Putting forth those mandatory wild parties
with cigarette edged off the lip,
claiming "Everything's alright. Leave the bugs squashed on the wall.")
And, Oh! To be trapped in a day in the life of lips considered prisoners.
Guilty by reason of sanity. By reason of chocolates caught
melting, moaning passionately.
Oh! the obvious risk of cuddling gorillas,
all the while knowing...
not beautiful or perfect, but obvious and expected
(Consider obvious inner-operation, something like:
Under the bathroom sink is a wall or Beyond the lips is a hole)
