A River of Conscious Paranoia

Oh what's the date? A mate for fate-
and now I'm rhyming once again.
My friend forsaken, cold feet taken
breaking all the pigeon hearts.

And legs for dinner,
I'm such a sinner,
but what belief is this you hold?

Wool is warmer, but holds no heat.
And fire blazes to cool my feet.
Why does the body not get along with the body?
the face on fire too selfish to share with the extremities?

And fingers are grasping the voices of the neighbors
just- fight- a little more.
Ice cream and pickled herring is not a dinner
we'd like to share. But this choice-
a privilege while my stomach growls with discontent
and still refuses such sweet and sick.

The shadow of a fluttered lash
reflects the pain of stolen memories-
refusing to be let go.
New shoes will catch my eye, unworthy of mention-
but mentioned all the same.

Pink and green and flowers from the 60's
all blended with my heater crackles
filling my apartment's loneliness.

And why aren't you writing your essay young lady?
Because I miss Julia and all her wilds.

I know without a doubt that these are just motions
like showers and make-up
that all must take place,
but why do they vanish like the ink of a pen
to dry for anyone's taste?

My face is still heated, my body still needed,
and still all my duties are sailing away.
And I wonder if I would think differently
through pen than through dreaming;
or if all of these misfires are just like your love.