Your Enigmatic Psycho Stalker

It’s a bit creepy but
you know I’d like to surround myself
with snapshots of your every angle
like a suicide-bombing fanatic
kneeling in front of a perturbingly arranged, collage
altar with dried birds and shrunken heads
to honor you

you.

you.

you.

It’s just you, my darling, you
and I know that sounds like a song but
I can’t really help it ’cause it’s automatic
and symptomatic of an addiction for your
crazy antics
and
those goddamn
nighttime acrobatics.

And baby you know I love to play with these rhymes
like a poor man with his pocket’s dimes
dreaming of dames, kinda lame–
to tell you the truth–
if such dames
don’t give a damn
about him
and, more especially, aren’t really you

you.

you.

you.

Last night I drew your face and body,
an enigmatic psycho stalker
obsessed with a pretty somebody
he just met on the train home.
But girl I still held that mechanical quill
and scratched on that plastic slab all

night

long

so that I may ogle your face and body
and immerse myself once more in that
nasty fantasy of my own creation–
a particularly perverse ambition–
like a god masturbating
on his own people
’cause, well,
how can you blame the man–I mean the god?
He loves them so much,
probably sorta like
how much I

love

you.

you.
you.

You, darling, baby, honey,
my Madonna, Mona Lisa, that
goddess-turned-Medusa,

yeah, this poor man
with his pocket of dimes
has his fingers dashing across the keyboard
tonight like an employee
with a deadline
and a dead man
talking to a hangman
and a Hungarian humming a–

hang on.

I don’t really know
and, as you can see, I practically
never gave a damn about what’s going on

with all the pretty dames and their mushy games
in my life. And even if you throw me
a movie star who came from the stars
with a thousand suicide-bombing fanatics
making her the creepiest collage altars,
stalking her in her train home,
baby, you know I would–

there’s just no doubt

I would–

kick that bitch in the face

and I

would send her flying–
flying across the stars where she came from
and in her trail would be a beam so bright
that the darkest, loneliest
night–
during which my fingers dashed
across the keyboard and thoughts of your
face and body
(so ordinary and routinary
of me)–

will explode into a million hues
never seen before
and blind men will see and cry the color red
for the first time;
and auroras will pale before
the splendor;
and the furor will fragment
every fit of fantasy I sketched
on plastic slabs and
heartache throbs;
and that trail of light

will be visible to everyone,
to every creature,
every gremlin
in every fucking airplane

that’s left this fucking country behind

like me.

And darling, baby, honey,
you’ll see it

this creepy, crazy, kinda crappy message

that I

miss

you.

you.

you.

in the weirdest, most spine-tingling way

(silently writing coded poems with bad taste
at midnight)

truly

an enigmatic psycho stalker.

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Filed under Love, Poems

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