I thought I’d
uncross your legs
by begging in the torn down sandpaper style
ribbing the truth, just minor bumped
sieving around the object of finding,
hidden pocket where
It’s not just screwing anymore, finding caught streams of the paperjam idea
that I feel good
But caught up, is the paperjam, stuck corners folding up
and I catch the breath it takes to run my fingers up
and scratch the back beneath the couch caught view
Just streak down the ash covered fingernail,
you keep clawing your shirt seam with to,
cover over the nippled fact that
And while I lick over the tone of you, and suck back caramel coated hard liquored intentions,
loosen the belt,
and unfasten the buttons
This trite manner of scratchy pleases,
and wood bed begs, is it enough for you to
But all I see is you,
You loved me when no one else,
Would ever love me too,
You calm my hearts storms
And you understand my pain,
You love me even when,
There is nothing to gain,
You stand beside me,
And listen to my thoughts,
Through the saddest tears,
And the angriest droughts,
I've doubted your power,
But you still love me so,
You are beside me any day,
Even when I am low,
My deepest darkest secrets,
Are not hidden from your grace,
And every moment I forget you,
I want to see your face,
Never will you leave me,
Even when I leave you,
Thank you for your forgiveness,
Without you I don't know what I would do.
and verbicidal prepositions
collage of cancerous spelling
and twisted vernacular
The Last Sentence,
you left me to paste,
tack on to
the corkboard wall where
our adjectives found duels, between strategy scenes
sterling suspended the acquisition,
who would dethrone Webster?
Higher grew the bed
of restless walks,
sat high upon the aerie
Where winged words rose above the guttural speech
I found choking the breath
ten thousand scores of blending brutal,
of dancing definitions
in a waltz of dissonance
my tired skin with kisses, until it was chapped,
scabbed over in contact? Give me thus an exoskeleton of
microscopic cells with which to shield myself from the world?
Should I have chosen you as the saviour, the suitor, the king?
I place in your crumpled palms the keys to the city of my soul.
Spare the battered widow who lives feebly beating in my chest,
her mourning shroud is gritty with use. She knows not how to rise.
Should I have given you suck at my breast, my lips, my fingers?
Is it you who will become the avenger of my plagues? You who
will layer your sweet-water orifice over my rust flaking tongue
to deepen your lungs with red tides, to drain the locusts from
my ribcage? Brush away the winged deaths beating at my eyes?
Do you wish for a goddess to grace the prow of your forehead?
I sleep tomorrow wracked with sickness on your seas.
The messengers refuse to reach me and unto home have
turned their heel. No more of you shall reach me this easily.
How long did Sita wait in the barren towers for her prince to arrive?
Must I forever fear the wings of leather bats
against my heart, heralding that this quick love, too, is dead?
Will you become stalwart, be that one who teaches my softened hands
to callus again with the oils of another's skin? I have known that roughening.
I exhale in the night with the ancient creep of Egypt's tombs.
something even and distilled,
wisdom fermented smoothly from hours of
(How simple it is to calm yourself with words.
The poem is the answer, but the poet sits in unrequited stasis.)
I'd assimilate these perfect sheets,
if I could. Gnaw these lines from buzzing screens
to float as bolstering flotsam in my cavities,
analgesic advice from myself.
(Spelling out the simplicity is so much easier
than letting trivial dilemnas spiral about in your head.)
Deja vu bad dreams; scenarios from which
I wake in my own liquid panic. They're not real,
but hairs stand on end like feelers searching out the inevitable
terrible news: I've failed again.
(Of course it's bound to happen; it always does.
Don't get your hopes up, lest they fall to crush you, spewing out your optimism.)
Don't get my hopes up, because they (i)will(/i) fall
to crush me, spewing out my optimism like this tributary of
mental cold sweat, flooding every other day over with
the unwarranted fear of losing you.
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tattoo on your shoulder
last night and wanted nothing more painfully than to
sink cuspids into muscle tasting sweat dancing smooth implosions over tongue
Kissed your cheek
yesterday, playfully, but my insides were
telling me to move over further so I could
drink fern-colored water from breath gasping quick like your thumbs teasing nipples
Slept curled against your side
this morning, back to chest, forcing
my hips to lie still, wishing it were
slow pulsing into-out-of arching bodies towards pleasure supernovas leaving thighs twined nerves panting
Let your hair curl under my palm
damp from sun, while you brushed your fingers
through mine, branding me with the whorls of your individual print.
those hands could be...
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