4:13 a.m.

**machinery** · February 27th, 2001, 12:58 AM

the tongue you used to speak,
a memory so swift and deep
how you melt my brow and eyes
into my
mouth salivating unbelievable feelings
and small fanasties.

How it spoke so gentle against my ears
parading down my canals, knocking on my drums

It was you,
that made my dreams wet,
nights of no sleep and cigarettes spent on my roof,
walking barefoot on the 4a.m. kitchen tile
escaping to the country road behind the wheel of my car

how my nights fashioned you
you were my cloak to shade my eyes
from deprivation and late night snacks

how all these visions and hobbies
came to my head
and put action through my hands

because of you, I felt
and experienced
new...
new descriptions in life

the beggar in my call
the base of my creativity,
inspiration
and sparatic masturbation

how I and my red digital clock would mourn for you
I would wait out the stares of Jim Morrison on my ceiling and breath through the voices from my stereo

You were the only artist that existed
you painted everything for me
in all your wilds and veracity
how many nights I wept from within my walls,
the frame of my car,
and walks away from your front door.

You replaced the slots that made
me hollowly mad and desperately lonely
filled the void with your vast eyes
and soft pushing thighs...

Oh how I could roll up into your warmth
(many nights I fell to your pleasure)

Marie,

I can't bare to look out my window, in the direction of your housing...your bed of soft sheets, where you lay to rest in this hour and how I wait for those words you use to speak, and how I desperately dream in my wake for you to come back and exist in these arms of mine. It's grown so cold and unfashionable inside myself. I can't stand to see you outside my true menu of feelings. I don't want us to be walked away from. I merely want you against my lips. I want to be close enough to catch your scent. It's been so long that I'm losing the taste of your form. How I wade and slowly drown in how I used to know every action and movement of your body and fell head over heels for your senous mechanics. Constantly awake from the aches in my smile, the hard breaths you gave to my neck, and the cold you gave when you rolled away in your sleep.

These are all but memories in my mind, you and your ways...I'm lost without you and silently hating myself tonight for what I did to you.

Goodnight Marie.

**machinery** · February 27th, 2001, 01:14 AM

I am not finished with this yet, but i really don't know what I want to add to this....its kind of mushy mushy....and I don't like that shit, but that's what i was feeling late last night.....so..fuck it..you know.........so just give me your 411 on this........

**parch** · February 27th, 2001, 04:35 PM

this is good...its so tragic how we only do so well when we have done so poorly. if only the the pictures of the future flew before their time and placed themselves in front of us. so then we may write without knowing what we are sure to touch.
i feel sad when i read your poetry lately. it hurts to think of things so much. you cut through it and all reality comes back in.
there may be too much truth in your art.

___---parch

**Serenna** · February 27th, 2001, 09:56 PM

this was so meaningful and romantic. but maybe that's just because i like "mushy mushy" poems as you called it. it sounds like an old love letter, something so antique and genuine. if only "marie" could read your words.....

i also love the line "you were the only artist that existed you painted everything for me" that really got me. i loved this.

**Serenna** · February 27th, 2001, 09:58 PM

and something else...i don't agree with parch when he said you might have too much truth in your art....isn't that what you're supposed to do: write what you know? write what gets your feelings and emotions going? otherwise what's the point? just a thought...

**machinery** · February 28th, 2001, 02:42 AM

yeah, something Marie probably wouldn't want to read. She pretty much wants nothing like this from me. No matter how much I wrote or how much I sent her, wouldn't matter. Mind has been made up ...and now I am writing to survive that feeling........