Poetry

I cannot help but be reminded of rising dawns 
in the rythm of ridiculous dancing in the perpetual state of wonder 
of 80´s pop music played on the English radio station. 
The air is still abound with the pheromones emanating 
from soft South-Asian skin in a surrogate home 
that has long since moved on. 
  
Perfect cheek bones smile better than others 
who dare question the human condition 
and perfect cheek bones shatter granite 
with the upmost frailty against passive serfdom. 
  
Zion is fucked, but not us for we do not play stupid games 
that end up lost in trees because idiots spend too long 
admiring the forest, and your slight Jersey accent 
speaks louder than the so-called profound 
who place their weight on your shoulders 
I wish I could put on mine, though I can 
barely breathe. 
  
A crazy old poet reminded me 
attachment is not love, so 
I´m learning to love you 
the way you need me to, 
but attachment is sincere 
and the farther I am from you 
the more important you become.