Blond Summer

Blond Summer


If pornography was set to more emotional music 
so you can almost pretend they’re in love.
If sometimes you need someone a little more ugly
and sometimes you need someone as ugly as you. 

Blond Chris in the summer of 1999.

In the grass. In the grass where you’re kicked 
in the mouth and you take it. 
In the grass where you don’t cry 
and swallow the blood (you’re a boy). 

Blond Chris in the summer of 1999.

You’re a boy and you steal the white tulips. 
You’re a boy. You put the tulips in your mouth.
The tulips are yours now. You want to ruin the tulips.
They are in your mouth. You’re a boy.

Blond Chris in the summer of 1999.

If you watch them spit. If you smile.
If they catch you watching.
If they spit on you. If you like it.
If they never smile and have beautiful knives (they are boys).

Blond Chris in the summer of 1999.

Blue life. Blue pain. Blue slap. 
Little shake. Don’t drip.
Don’t cry. Don’t talk. Just smile. 
Blue day. Blue God. Blue something. 

Blond Chris in the summer of 1999.

Why would you step on the bodies to watch all the insides spill out?
The beautiful bees and the beautiful wasps.
Listen to me like you would a school teacher.
Someone is going to nail your hands to the wood for a very long time.

Blond Chris in the summer of 1999. 

Honey. Baby. Good boy. 
Don’t touch. No touching.
Open your eyes. Open your mouth. 
Open your throat like a man and learn to keep it open. 

Blond Chris in the summer of 1999. 

I was going to write you the most delicate letter
but when I came home I couldn’t tell what I was. 
Oh God. Oh Jesus. Oh Mary.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with myself?

Blond Chris in the summer of 1999. 

You were my God once
but you know I have always been stronger. 
And you were my blood here on Earth
but all you did was piss on my fear.

Blond Chris in the summer of 1999. 

If you’re a good boy all you get is nothing.
Too good. Too sad. Too handsome. 
Better not to have been anything then. 
Better then to have been something ugly. Someone bad.

Blond Chris in the summer of 1999.

I miss you in the long afternoons.
I miss you under the trees.
I miss you in the long afternoons under the trees.
And I miss you under the trees where I was a person in summer.

I was.