I Think of You in Terms of Hysteria – Poetry Collection by WEASEL PATTERSON

I think of you in terms of hysteria

the moon hangs empty tonight
leaving tall buildings
and sharp sins to shelter us

under busted street lights
you lure me closer
lips cinching
tongue plucking teeth
leaving the taste of maraschino cigs
the taste of tobacco with class

my fingers climb the stairway of your back
but you have eaten too many thorns
your stems have grown jagged

i slice my hand trying to get inside you
dance the tango while you make the earth quake
you were obliteration
pulling apart our bodies

yet this is what i crave
dust and debris piling in my throat
the taste of our home crumbling into dissolution
abandonment

you slipped away from me
left your last words on the concrete
they were the shotgun shells
pumped into my gut

the last delirium that will never heal


Afflictions

my thirst quaked for your tastes
when the fevers left
I searched for you
inside every crevice made
from the linings of our last breath

we were weak
fingers wandering
the final roadways of our bodies
no recovery in our sleep
only erasure as we fall
to our frailty

such is uncertainty
such is time—

eroding our vision
taking away our patience
for each other as we eat of our flesh—
we are hungry creatures
wanting each other to die
so we could meet in the other life

our hands gather at the confessional
arsonist waiting inside

when the fires touch your skin
I could only think
of how lost we will be
when we finally share
our last rites


We Think We Know What Snow Looks Like When it Falls

walking downhill
feet cling to slippery sidewalks
as the snow falls
you huddle against me
while we try to keep balance

I want to ask you
if these skies have always carried
the grey of ourselves
but I stay silent
fearing your answer

my father always told me
not to trust anyone else
people are like weeds
you can rarely pull them out
once they’ve gotten in

so I learned not to talk with people
sewing my lips each year
to keep from being infected

we crawl downward
towards a coffee shop at the end of the hill
could you hear my heart stop
underneath the steel of my chest
could you feel the skips
each time your hand brushed my arm

I can’t peel it back for you
it’s tradition in the family
to lock the muscle into place
and save face when you want to open yourself up

we hang out in the drive-thru
no lobby to fight this cold
I think about how you would taste if I kissed you

drivers honk at us
because we are not cars
only bodies that mesh together

maybe they are bitter
seeing two men entangled
uncomfortable with the idea
that we may be lovers

but these drivers have everything
they got jobs
they got kids
and every other goddamn thing in this world
and they want us out their damn way
so they can get their booster shot
to get them through the day

and we have nothing

I wanted to fuck you here
in this drive-thru
anger still blasting at us
while I strip you down
to the pale white skin
what would these bastards think

I am selfish
learning about desire
craving a taste
like every time I see a cigarette
lying on the ground

though you will never know this
you swallowed the balance in my steps
made my rebirth wobbly

we grab our oil
walk back uphill
bodies warming
the grey gets harsh in the clouds
as you slowly loosen yourself from me


I Still Dream of you When the Stars are Gone

you were the centerfold I stared at in the dark
growing crinkled over time
catching a few rips on the edges
but flesh is only temporary

when I thought about tasting you
the air stood still
my frame grew fragile

hushed breaths squeezed out the thinning of my dreams
as I let you roam around inside me
we were skeletons
playing bass with each other’s veins
waltzing jitterbugs through our blood

this is all we have left
chunks of bone
growing brittle over time


Heroin

my therapist said
I should empty the bad dust
piling up in my skull

I tried to peel it back
in order to scoop the mess out
but jackals are too addicted
to their demons

so I light up in the parking lot
to cure the remains
I failed to take out
but self-medication
can’t erase your taste
from my past


***

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Weasel is a degenerate writer who received his Bachelors of Arts in Literature at the University of Houston-Clear Lake. He currently uses it as scrap paper to fuel his two publishing imprints Weasel Press and Red Ferret Press.

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One Comment Add yours

  1. Loved this collection

    Like

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