Spotlight: Dusty Video Game Discs by Robert J.W.

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Wrestling Wounds

 

The awe of

the old

wrestling tapes we

watched in

your room; we

imitated their

moves on

the trampoline in

your driveway.

There was a

cacophony of

steel, wire, and

glowing tubes.

After one

match, we inspected

each other’s wounds.

You told

me there was

a gash on

my back that

resembled our

lives and I

didn’t believe you.

You flashed

it in your

eyes and

I just

shrugged it off.

We had a

beer and

watched the

sky explode before

I went to

the emergency room.

I stitched

it myself with

lies and

reels of our

every bad

match together.

 

 

 

Your Room

 

Our bottles strayed

across your

room where

we watched
old movies and
played dusty

video game discs.

We did

impressions of

people that were

so spot

on that even

that stars were jealous.

Our lungs grew

muscles after

every joke we

let slither into

the country air.

We could bury

ourselves in

rivers and

still survive hours after.

Metallica and

Black Label

Society gave us

a soundtrack to

our stagnancy,

We still

reached the

moon, regardless.

 

 

 

 

 

Road Trips

 

The weeping

sky feel from

its sanctuary onto

the hood of

your car as we

travelled the

tri-state area.

We stopped at

restaurants and

danced in

the dining rooms.

I burned you some

albums and

we listened to

them as

the horizon got

closer than your

relationship with God.
Our hands

clasped and we

never looked

in the

rearview at

our destinations.

We only

gazed into

the inevitability of

each other.

 

 

 

 

 

Embrace Like Gasoline And Bruised Matches

 

Another can

raised to the

overseeing eye of

my ceiling fan, we

imbibed from

the aluminum

chalice to

fill our

sadness with

so much

fire that

it would

fall apart in

an orange and

blue catastrophe.

We listened to

Smashing Pumpkins on

Youtube and

talked about

everything from

disease to

the makeshift

gears of

our brains.

Conversations got

so deep that,

at times, we

thought we would

never see air.

We always made

our way

up, to

embrace like

gasoline and

bruised matches.

The mirrors of

our non-existence only

reflected one

another and

we can’t

stop the sight.

 

 

 

 

Friday Night Astronomy

 

Every Friday, we

would go to

the grocery

store and

then walk to

the video store.

We shot

placentas through

our noses, playing

on high

beams and

forklifts as if
they were cradles.

Inside the

rental place, Elvis

danced across

time itself to

a tune of excitement.

We browsed through

pixelated planets, debating

on which

one we would

inhabit for

the weekend.

It would

either be a
hospitable place or

one that

needed nuked but

we always had

a good

time whether we

lived

or died.

 

 

 

 

Collecting Nights

 

The sidewalks of

this town bowed

before our

crimson feet as

we jumped from

one building to

another.

We drank our

weight from the

Monongahela River.

The sepsis settled

in our brain

stems and

whispered song

lyrics into

our veins.

We met

friends who

did the

same so we

embraced them in

our hearts like

abandoned children.

The change in

our pockets was

tossed to

the mouth of

the river, a

tip for another

great night we

put away on

a shelf with

the others.

 

 

 

Mutual Tears

 

You would

meet me on

the streets behind

my apartment.

We lit

cigarettes with

mutual tears and

inhaled the

grief as we

told inside

jokes to an

audience of mirrors.

Tossing the

regrets into a

vast never, we

would hop into

your car just

to travel familiar roads.

Pop-punk vibrated

the doors as

we laughed at

every sign that

lead us to a

destination of nothing.

Love and

disgust were

left in

our dust but
not out

of sight.

The coal in

our veins turned

pink in the

presence of

one another.

We bled without

wounds, licking

the salt with

smiles of dust.

 

 

 

 

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