Life becomes so many wooden floors.
Slow motion: we’re at the bowling alley
moving far too slow across lacquered lanes;
then, we pace soft, wooden floors with doggie toenails
skittering sweetly across the grain.
Then again – now, wooden baseboards in Malibu,
joining up with poorly-built foundations
where we thought we could build upon.
Our toes were always above those floors,
tracing our tracks
along the longest nights that ever existed; those nights
where we stalk ghosts
through everything boundless.
It was all only just yesterday,
so many years ago.
It’s all in the tips of the fingers you brush,
all these wooden floors, netted by night.
It was a cult of Us, and the witching hour only existed there.
All was transcendental; truth was dark; everything – it never existed.
It was hidden and perfect; clandestine cravings never to be felt again.
Those slow nights: we stretched them on for years.
We pulled them like black taffy, warmed them –
and as they grew thick and stiffer, we pulled them –
stretched them, wanton, between our fingers.
The nights have always belonged to us,
empty mouths and ravenous chests.
werewolves we were,
slowing the dawn and burying stars
and thick spectral desires;
werewolves we were.
we tasted the other side; it won’t let us go –
it comes across in sparks; a fleeting, sleeping twitch.
snow on a park city path.
absolute emptiness in a malibu house.
cold sheets and fireworks in half-time.
floating weightless in an empty midnight pool –
we are haunting us in real-time
x-rays and empty baggies
records skip and skip and skip
and skip and
and we’re howling at a moon
at the bottom of a bottle
cutting it all into silvery lines and moonlit crescents
and we are dancing and screaming and.
we’re werewolves and full and darkest, always, before the dawn.