perhappened mag
issue 4: MIXTAPE
not to be fake deep,
but do i even like
tame impala?
CASEY SMITH
after Elephant—Tame Impala
When the fat sun slips a butter knife
under my orange peel eyelids and pulls back
the skin, my ass is touching the ground
through a deflated air mattress.
I am quietly drunk inside my own head
and plucking the mascara off
my eyelashes, starting at the root, watching
the speckled ceiling wink back at me, whispering,
She loves me, she loves me not,
she loves me not, she loves me not.
Every poem I can’t write stitches my ribcage tighter:
the needle’s slips sound like shit—shit—shit--but last night
for once, I wasn’t searching for the poem:
it found me, tacky with sweat and accumulating
glitter from other people’s bodies: one ripple
in the muggy human wave breaking against
Monday morning—each one of us: a sonnet to body heat,
crossed, palms skyward, and feeling profound.
I don’t remember much but the laser show pinning streamers
to the night’s dark ceiling--and not to be fake-deep, but--
we sang into each other’s mouths, breathed each other’s
breaths, we surrendered our heartbeats to the bassline,
and it was special not to be one person for once, but
today, we are being asked to return to our own altars.
Today is Monday morning. Today, my lips
are kiss-warm only because they’re chapped.
On the car ride home, the yellow lines crest and slip back
towards Atlanta, and the fat sun is all we’re taking
with us. We listen to the same songs
and they sound far away. The road rattles the windows
& it sounds nothing like applause.
under my orange peel eyelids and pulls back
the skin, my ass is touching the ground
through a deflated air mattress.
I am quietly drunk inside my own head
and plucking the mascara off
my eyelashes, starting at the root, watching
the speckled ceiling wink back at me, whispering,
She loves me, she loves me not,
she loves me not, she loves me not.
Every poem I can’t write stitches my ribcage tighter:
the needle’s slips sound like shit—shit—shit--but last night
for once, I wasn’t searching for the poem:
it found me, tacky with sweat and accumulating
glitter from other people’s bodies: one ripple
in the muggy human wave breaking against
Monday morning—each one of us: a sonnet to body heat,
crossed, palms skyward, and feeling profound.
I don’t remember much but the laser show pinning streamers
to the night’s dark ceiling--and not to be fake-deep, but--
we sang into each other’s mouths, breathed each other’s
breaths, we surrendered our heartbeats to the bassline,
and it was special not to be one person for once, but
today, we are being asked to return to our own altars.
Today is Monday morning. Today, my lips
are kiss-warm only because they’re chapped.
On the car ride home, the yellow lines crest and slip back
towards Atlanta, and the fat sun is all we’re taking
with us. We listen to the same songs
and they sound far away. The road rattles the windows
& it sounds nothing like applause.
Casey Smith is a poet from South Carolina. She is currently an MFA candidate at the University of Tennessee-Knoxville. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Passages North, SICK Magazine, Booth, Okay Donkey and others. Twitter: @aeyoei.