Monday, January 31, 2011

In A Chest Deprived Of Oxygen No Fire Can Envelop The Heart

I look around my room and on the floor
there are multiple envelopes
from a woman up north

I remember how when we first began talking
I told her not to love me,
not to even say the damned word,
and she did it anyway,
like I had locked up my love
and she were the most skilled of safecrackers

These physical representations begin to anger me,
these remnants of yet another woman's attempt
to give me something I didn't want,
and I'm left with only one comforting thought;
"At least it wasn't the other way around"

Grabbing up the papers and burning them seems the thing to do,
it's funny how a cleansing through fire
can seem so very dramatically right
yet be so truly unfulfilling,
so I go through the motions
of putting flame to the debris of an old flame
that never really lit me up


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Hours Alone

I don't have anything anymore.

I remember how I once woke up,
multiple days of the week
and I'd have this great plan
for what was going to occur that day,
some girl, some place, something I could go do

Now, I awaken,
I decide whether or not
I want to smoke a cigarette,
if I don't, all I'll do is think about it,
and if I do smoke one I become surrounded
by thoughts of dying
as my chest forgets how to breathe properly
and lungs leave me short of energy

I lay or sit here on this bed
thinking of how pathetic my life has become
for hours a day, and I get no closer
to anything resembling a better thought process

It wasn't much better when I had something,
some girl, some place to go,
but I wasn't facing my own death at the time,
and that's all it feels like anymore inside this chest
that loses against the intake of oxygen

waiting. to. die.

There's nothing of interest outside of a girl or two,
and there's only truly any interest there
because I want someone to inspire me to believe in living again,
even at the risk of falling in love with life
just as I were to die,
one second would be so worth it
compared to these hours alone


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

And So She Returns

She's been coming into my dreams for days,
this beautiful girl I fell in love with long ago,
having conversations with me that I can't remember,
and I laugh at my silliness when I realize
it's just me talking to myself in here

It doesn't feel like it used to,
that nagging that would tear a hole in my gut,
the sense that the only woman worthy of my time
were throwing herself to the wolves and gone,
now, instead, I look at my watch and laugh about
all the time I spent thinking about someone
who never lost a moment of sleep for me

The girl who almost took her place
is moving back to Little Rock now,
and she's saying for the 30th time
that she's getting a divorce,
I don't buy it, but I do want
to buy her a drink and see if she
can still make me feel like a handsome man,
dancing amongst the lies I tell myself
and the ones she spills out over the table,
interspersed with just enough truth
to keep the interest of a man
who no longer calls dreams filled
with women he can't have around
"nightmares"



© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Friday, January 28, 2011

My Desire To Take Out The Trash

She's just the right amount of trashy
when she bends over to set things down
in the passenger seat of her small car,
leaving her son to stand there in the heat
wondering why his mom's ass is stuck in the air,
and twenty or so years from now, why he's attracted
to the fair skin of inconsiderate women

It's a fairly new car, and I'm left wondering
as she drives up and out of the L-shaped parking lot
just why she wouldn't be running the air conditioning
and just what her moist from sweat parts would taste like
if I ran my tongue over them like the damp, cool washcloths
sat next to the beds of the sick or dying, soothing her
as she soothes me with her flesh and sighs of good pain


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Between The Bullet And Beating Yourself Up

I can hear the sound of a hammer being pulled back
on one of the world's invisible pistols
every time she speaks to me,
this coldness in her hand that'll finalize saying goodbye
to the things she no longer has the desire to throw "hellos" at,
and it's quite disturbing,
to the point that each time
I can feel my own thumb pressed firmly
against my own

When someone you love and respect,
whom you think is bigger than you in so many ways
upstairs and in the chest,
decides to or feels compelled to end it,
well, it's a fucking heartache,
I somehow feel guilty, and I've never figured out why,
but I do know that in the middle of these moments
I find myself wishing I were good enough to pull her from it,
but I know that's silly, because if I were
I would have holstered the cold steel feeling from my hands
and have this fucker hocked by now,
if only for a few thought processes
that could make me smile

When she speaks to others in front of me
I can hear the shots going off,
aimed from her lips to their hearts,
these desperate shots expected to bring them up to her level,
shot-off in hope the perfect words will flow from their lips to her ears,
but you can see in her eyes that she knows this will never come to pass,
as if she already knows it's hard to hit the bullseye when your lips are quivering

I know that look too,
because I know that feeling,
that pressure against the cold
screaming out, wanting someone to be the perfect negotiator ,
but the disbelief that one even exists haunts you
if you're walking around with these invisible pistols,
after watching so many fail at your "perfect" test
usually inspires one's heart to believe in no perfect counterpart,
knowing you'll only settle for less until you pull the trigger
or surround yourself with people you know would put themselves
between the bullet and you, no matter how selfish the world takes it


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

The Downtime Of Most Men's Favorite Part, Exclusion From Her Heart

She quoted some song by a band I've never liked,
something about not knowing if she were ever loved
by any of the hands that had crossed her flesh,
I giggled at the song choice but became saddened
by how true those words seemed, though, I promise you,
this will not change my idea of how crappy that band is

Anyhow, I don't know if I have been either,
touched by any hands that have loved me,
usually I find myself only being touched
by the most broken hearted and generally broken,
no woman I've ever thought was great
has swept me off my fucking feet
or allowed me to do the same for her,
not that I've needed it, but it'd be nice
to know what such a wonderful thing feel like

Instead, like the world's worst comicbook hero
I stumble into a woman's life at one of her
many, many down points, I say a few "new to her" things
and find myself balls deep inside my latest mistake
because it feels nice to be someone's greatest thing,
if only for a brief moment, as if I'm saving her

Using the bedsheet as a cape
and my words as a superpower
I charge into the mind of women
who'd rather not have me in there,
only to find the kryptonite that is their hearts,
these dark masses that've grown so cold that no amount of capes,
words or fucking can make them beat with any signifigant warmth


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Friday, January 14, 2011

On A Quiet Night Your Explosions Run Wild Across My Nervescape

A newly discovered sound
the nature around me
things chirping and buzzing
in a moist, half-moon night,
I sit with a general knowledge
of where exactly on a map I am
but haven't the slightest idea
if the guy who designed the map
were as full of shit as I may be
sometimes...

but I can't hear the auctioneer anymore,
and there's no screaming of motorbikes,
no silence cut short by the man-made,
at least to my ears inside the short bursts,
when I can almost push you out of my heart entirely,
even when I know it's me that keeps you there,
the warden of a prison you left long ago,
I keep the damned cell locked around your ghost
and just as I think of how it'd feel to set free
the ghost I've made of you for me,
a firecracker goes off a block away
silencing the night like my thoughts on your voice,
how you sounded when you said those dishonest words

You are a distant and constant distracting explosion
on the edge of my sanity and begging me to fall over,
and I am forever silenced with the echo of your passionate flame
across nights like these when I'm surrounded by what I know is beautiful
yet I'm blinded and deafened to anyone or anything that seems
to want to prove that you aren't the only thing capable of burning me,
desensitized to the touch of sparking flesh that isn't yours,
knowing that when they ask me to be sincere in the night
about why it is I'm not drawn to their flames as maddeningly
nor as often as I am to your star which lights the entrance of my heaven,
in those moments, when I see that look we get in our eyes
when we watch our hearts born in the body of our love
and cast them into the sky above all other desires,
as that look grows across the face of who wants to love me,
I'll wish then greatly that you'd never been born into my heart,
a birth that leaves dead any chance of them gliding in your sky



© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Friday, January 7, 2011

Reactions To Ordinary Things

I was standing there
losing my breath
over the stove,
waiting for the burner
to get hot enough
to ignite my calm

Forgotten memories of the night
were coming back at me
like boxing gloves, swaying me
in my socks on the linoleum floor,
spinning every thought out of control

I tried like hell
to just come back in my mind
to hold a former lover once more,
to step in the ocean for the first time,
to pull the handbrake not knowing
how the little car would react,
but my heart raced
for entirely
different reasons
I knew too well

I noticed the smoke from the burner getting thick,
I took a drag, blew out into the dimly lit kitchen
and stared at a cobweb behind the edge of the refrigerator
for a few seconds before turning off the burner
and heading towards my room

With smoke trailing behind me,
cigarette dangling from my lips,
I push open the bedroom door
like a train through a stranded semi-truck

I think about helpless tracks
having to watch the horror of my path
as I stumble past trophies of some former life

Pictures of me
staring back with a smile
as I sit in front of the open window,
rain beating through the limbs,
headlights flowing through
the drops like kaleidoscopes

I think of light bouncing off her eyes,
I think of slide turns
in neighborhoods unknown to me,
I think of you, and you and you...


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Sunday, January 2, 2011

The Only Moisture I Never Question

I looked through the wet windshield
and flashed back to the night
she'd first flashed me
then we went too far

She lay across my lap
as I pushed fingers
in and out of her softly,
with her cooing the only thing I desired to hear
she whispered "Do you know why I'm this way?"
and told me her first time was an uninvestigated rape scene

I looked inside myself and asked why
I could stop my desires then
and have them naturally change themselves
into something closer to selfless
yet still crave her touch later
knowing she were still being raped,
only now she does the physical push,
she's the mad force holding herself down

I'm just the lab rat she uses
in some experimental procedure
to make peace with it

My cheeks are now the windshield
and this rain comes from the cloudiness of mind
after the storm front of her memory
knocked me over and drowned my eyes


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)