Thursday, December 30, 2010

Two Stars Pulling One Another

I miss your hands on the back of my head as I lay here tonight,
holding a pillow in my arms, eyes closed, lights on,
music on the radio I began listening to
just before we came back together
for the last time

I remember telling you how we were stars too close like this,
in each others arms, you hugged me so right,
and when you backed away your hand came up to my face,
I closed my eyes as you traveled behind my mind,
pulled me down until our lips met

That moment still sticks out as one
of the smoothest movements I've ever been guided into,
and it all comes back to me, through this pillow,
through this room you've been to,
through these thoughts of you
that keep me from sleep,
the only place I see you anymore

© 2010 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Begging For Snow

I was driving in this non-snow weather
I had been thinking of seeing that frosty blanket of white
covering the ground, inspiring a feeling or purity to it all
But instead I found the streets damp, cold, drery
People were speeding, cutting each other
off through intersections and entrance ramps
I was trying to cut off the thoughts of you before you
turn my head towards all the trucks that look just like yours
I guess I hadn't gotten the speed built up enough, because you beat me there
To the roads in my mind that were too much traveled and too few times ignored
I passed the third truck like your's just two minutes away from
home, all three of them I'd searched with my eyes, with my all
Trying to feel where you are
Where are you right now?
You're not next to me, I know
Holding my hand over this console
Smiling when I tell you beautiful things about
yourself like how your nose wiggles when your laugh
at me or how when you laugh hard your upper lip
will cover your bottom lip when your mouth closes
I always loved those things about you, and I'd tell you
all the time because you said it never ceased to amaze
you at how I noticed these things that only you knew
I remember how you'd gasp for breath when we touch fingertips and I'd run
my thumb gently in circles on the paper thin flesh of the back of your hand
Your flesh as white as the snow I now beg for, your
purity dangling before me in the form of my old button
up shirt sliding from your shoulders, your smile, my god
Your smell the only air in the room when we kissed and how I'd breathe in
so deeply when we were close, as if trying to take you in to be held forever
And I'd worship you, every inch so pure, so driven to feel my lips slipping across you, you'd moan so softly that it'd seem as if your soul had sighed
I would move slow, tears falling from the corners of your eyes as I enter
you, and your breath would speed past my ears, my neck, my soul and my heart
I open my eyes in the parking lot, take
a deep breath that doesn't smell of you
I stare at the console, the floorboard
My passenger seat which is still missing you
I close my eyes tightly and my hand grips
itself so intensely over the console, begging
through stessful movement for you to enter
fingertips through and inside it's hold
Open eyes, open door, open hands, step out
Close door, blink, swing legs, walk away

© 2010 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

The True Whore Sits On The John

I'm standing above the toilet where I once sat
as a girl I once liked cut my hair with a loud trimmer

I remembered that where I was standing
was where she stood,
a tight tee-shirt on,
raising slowly as she reached around my head,
my eyes locked on her beltline,
I stared straight into her soft,
pale skin,
filled with freckles,
about 3/4 of an inch by one foot
of pure and perfect imperfection
between her top and blue jeans

I sat there on the john,
wishing she'd be my hooker,
not that I would follow through
and not that I could handle it,
but I wanted her so bad,
and I could smell her,
I excitedly told her

"Your scent is filling my nostrils, my god,
I want to nibble on you so badly right now, right here"

and aimed my eyes back at her exposed flesh

She laughed as if I were being falsely badass,
but I really wanted her,
I hoped she could see it in my eyes,
one minute before I saw her little belly
and smelled her above everything else
in this poor man's bathroom
I knew I didn't want her sexually,
and now her nakedness and moans of pleasure
were all I longed for, quite literally,
as I squeezed my thighs together
in hopes I could hide my cock
that was growing and throbbing
as she dismissed my desire
as mere comedic playfulness

I still want her today,
wrapped around me and clamping down
as I cum inside her tightness,
even with the baby she and her latest victim made
swimming around in that place I know better
than climbing inside of

I guess he had a more serious look in his eyes,
and now, in this bold scented bathroom,
I don't know who got luckier
but I still envy him

© 2010 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

The Short Walk To The House That Doesn't Feel Like Home

I cowered my head in front of the house where I grew up
as I walked the street out front in the 28 degree weather

My breath came off
like fresh cigarette hits blown out too early
and all I could think about is
how evil I must be
for not taking any appreciation
out of having this house to shelter me
from what shakes me to my core
beneath this suade looking jacket of brown
with this black unbuttoned button-up shirt,
also of a suade-like lie texture and slightly parted
exposing a silly tee-shirt with all kinds of stupid shit on it
that I bought for seven dollars in one of those places
that loves to rip-off people in the poorer part of town,
just a few miles from this frozen street and this chill in the air
burning crisp down the back of my throat and inside my nose
while I gasp and think of the friends I feel I am losing,
the ones I've lost, the ones I disappoint,
on and on until I am sick with it

I stare at this house
and realize I've been standing here for five minutes,
not moving, frozen
like this pile of pine needles the mail lady's Jeep grabbed
with it's locked up, braking tire
as she slid to a stop to drop off my father's bills
and my hospital paperwork,
or maybe something from the government
about a check in my name
because people and I don't get along,
because I can stand in front of a place
filled with terrible memories,
imagine and remember many more that hurt me
beyond understanding,
I am a broken man

They say I'm crazy because I can stand here in the cold
and not feel a thing, because I'm back there with you,
or you,
or you who has someone reading this aloud to you
as you fake a smile and try to find a way to hate me,
pretending you don't know what I think of you,
thinking I don't care
because I refuse to allow hurt into my life
when I actually know my limitations
and that you exceed them,

I'm crazy because I still come back
through the door I'm staring at
and refuse your foot's attempt to get stuck in it,
as if I want you trapped here as well

I laugh it all off with the thought:

"Someone really should put a 'No Trespassing' sign out here"

and light up a cigarette like I've just given up,
because I think, sometimes, that I have

© 2010 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Stormy Eyes Invade The Winter's Night

I drempt about her
and her gray-blue eyes,
so haunting was this dream
that when I awoke in my chilly room
I went straight for the toilet across the hall
to toss out last night's midnight snack
of granola bars, chips and soda
only to dry heave for 5 minutes
with tears in my eyes from the physical pain
of waking up with a hard-on for an idiot
and having slept too long to have anything left
to toss out of me

Those gray-blue eyes sit just behind me now,
I find myself turning 'round to catch her staring
only to find nothing, not her smile or lisp,
just some person wondering
why the hell I look so damned confused

She invades my mind
in ways I'm sure I never invade her's,
I doubt she's ever gotten sick at the prospect
of going down on me like I did on her in this dream,
I'm sure she's never grown tired of memories
all about my touch, a footrub turned soaking wet panties
on a Christmas night no one else would spend with her,
at least not as tired as I've grown to her memories
that leave me with a bad taste in my mouth
that my mouth has never before known,
the taste of a girl equal parts beautiful and ugly,
beautiful when she's being ugly to herself
by moistening up her sweetest places for me,
ugly when she admits it's not out of love,
not out of liking me at all,
just boredom, then denial,
then procamations that I'm insane

I must be the crazy one
because somewhere in here,
in this twisted mess of me,
I still long to give her pleasure
when she doesn't even deserve the pain
of knowing how much I dislike her actions
and how willing I am, apparently,
to make her cum enough
to want to repeat them

© 2010 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Monday, December 6, 2010

Awakening To It All Again

I awoke again
with the first thought in my head being:
"So, I didn't die in my sleep, damn"
and crawled from bed like a man who had found
only to give it back unwillingly

I knew I was late for my appointment
down at the nuthouse, they waited for me,
or so my egotistical mind was thinking,

They said "We'll have to reschedule you"
for the third time in 3 months
since I'd broken myself down to "admitting"
that I need help and can't do it alone,
since the day I spent with the crazies
at University of Arkansas For Medical Sciences,
since the night I spent sleepless thinking about a girl,
a girl who loved me, she said,
as she lived with her husband
and damned her kids with his presence
two states north of the most northern state I've been

and she broke me down farther last night,
pushed me down like the hot button in the football
the president carries around nonchalantly,
as if he couldn't destroy the world,
as if she couldn't destroy me

I told the women "There's always options..."
as she gave me some off-handed excuse
in order to let her go to bed tonight
with a falsely clear concious
as I cry myself to sleep in the arms of women
who aren't there and most likely will never be...

and when I go to sleep,
one of my final thoughts of the day,
or whatever will be:
Will tonight be the night the universe lets me go?

only to awaken again in the damned empty room,
with this empty chest and all this love
that nobody I know wants nor can handle

A man looking through the fence at the other grass
and realizing it's as dead is what I stand on
and will surely not win any prizes
in Better Homes and Gardens

© 2010 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)