Pookie

Pitching pictures into pitchers,
Filled with alcohols and liquors,
Clouded skies and clouded memories,
Pitched pictures into pitchers,
Floating down the stream of our livers,
The kind of memories you’ll never remember,
The kind of delight in a being a sweet sinner.

Throw your clouded memories up into the clouds,
Hope the sun will be our film strip and bring them to life,
Or throw them up against the moonlight,
Hope the stars are projectors that give them light,
Or throw them into the sea,
Hope the mouth of the ocean gives them speech,
Or just let them be,
Our own imagery.

The best stories are the ones that can’t quite be told,
The kind we invent when we are drunk or bored,
But when I was a kid the story I would invent,
She was blonde hair and blue eyes,
Clear skinned and narrow thighed,
Talked in ethics and morals,
Was loyal to anything but a quarrel.

When I see you my body stands at attention,
Erect and dreaming of your friction,
You are an untold story come true,
My picturesque goddess of virtue.

A picture of a pitcher of you,
A glass filled with the liquid of our time,
I’ll drink it all until we have no time left,
And I’ll dream of you even in my death.

Time doesn’t even matter to me,
What matters are memories,
The clouded fantasies come to life when I’m with you,
You love me the way I think every lover should do.

So stare at the clouds with me,
And let’s use those clouds to form stories of our fantasies,
And stare at the stars,
Can’t say I’ll do the same,
I’ll be staring at the beautiful sun,
Found in your beautiful face.

A million sonnets have been written,
About love that is so good it must be fiction,
A lot of those sonnets have been written by me,
Some have been elegant and some have come off as a desperate plea,
But my only plea now is for another six months with you,
For our memories to ride the clouds,
And be in the heavens soon.

You talk about God,
And I very much believe,
Because of the way you stare at me,
Like you don’t see the cracks in my skin,
You only see cracks we can repair,
Like you don’t see clouded memories,
You only see stories that could be made out of those clouded characters in the air.

You talk about Christ,
And I very much believe,
Because of the way you find beauty in everything,
In a plague or in a grave,
In a memory,
That is anything but vague.

And with you I believe in anything,
But mostly I believe,
That you’re all my favorite things,
Tied up in a human being,
Fuck it… so cliche but true,
You’re all I’ve ever dreamed of… and I love you.

So picture me in a pitcher again,
Floating down a lazy river,
With liquor burning my skin,
Bones displaced like puzzle pieces,
But then that toxic water,
Turns so holy,
You put me together.
With love,
You in the clouds write our story.

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