"Nobody will ever love you as much as an artist can. On your worst days, they will find poetry in the knots of your hair."
My eyes followed the lines in the mahogony bar now
Stretched and faded into the jostled disstance
As I peered from glass to glass, olives and yellows
Pomegranate red, striped straws
Ice cubes swirling.
You leaned over the bar
Resting your weight on your forearms
And the lanky bartender turned his back, whirling this way and that
You turned to me as if to speak
Did you feel that I was staring?
Here on your left admiring the curls and clumps in your hair
Night seaweed and rippling layers of shadow lines
I taste salt in the etch lines of my vaso
Forest of dripping and entangling vine
What if my fingers were entrapped in the spiral?
“A black Russian would be nice at this point in my night,” you said
Your eyes are the color of a Brazilian nut taken from the recesses of the Amazon
They are the round doors to a viscous memory
Rooted deeply in the warm soil of beginnings
They are oil paints of swirling earth and relucent night
“To read my eyes is to know me and I should like to know a dancer,”
“I think a Cossack dancer, pouring me that drink, warming me” you said.
I traced my eyes across your light olive skin
Down the dangling twisted vine plunged into imagination
Your hips and trembling flesh greeted the percussion
“Buy me the Russian that I ask for and let me warm my organs.”
The silky fringe lay in tatters across your abdomen
I am the breeze to enter the spaces of your transparent blouse
“Sir, bring her a black Russian would you?”
You circled your torso, pressing against the bar, swaying.
My hands trace the olive of your skin
Mahogany and honey, cello and silk
“The drink runs through me.”
Mixing, dipping, blossoming
The spaces of your silhouette in the swirling earth of a relucent night."
"Yours is the only face I recognize.
Bone at my bone, you drink my answers in."
"Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air."
"I want you to want me."
Some Things You Could Do To Heal Yourself:
Don’t kiss the boy with no bicycle.
Don’t kiss the girl with moon lips.
Don’t kiss wild animals
or hand grenades.
You fuck for the same reasons
lost men drink.
Don’t spend another day
mourning the smell of her shampoo.
You silly little girl,
"We kissed in that darkness
where everyone’s the same,
where lips might be anything—
a hand, a belly, the curve of a hip,
or a small string of words,
not yet spoken, half inside your mouth,
and half inside of mine."
Artist: Bat for Lashes
Album: What's a Girl to Do (Single)
Track: What's a Girl to Do?
What’s a Girl to Do? - Bat for Lashes