Month: June 2011


quietly high i am
john mayer doing battle
studying piano music
fluttering across
my laptop speakers
high, unbreathing so soft and
wanting to cry for all this
so much very incredible this,
home again and here again and
us again, head to head
glasses reflecting one another’s and

want to cry want to sob soft into the spread
to darken the blue with my blues
my joyful joyblues at your mahogany
beside my cocoa again, all over again, you

home again
quietly high on you here


shit for skinny bitches

tell me where they’ve gone,
those curves spread wide
as bone bowls to drink sweet sensuality,

give me the earthy ones
with their woodskin and wiles,
their willow-bend warmth
and welcoming arms;

give me sunspotted sylphs
whose heads breathe flame,
india ink over flax or sun
(i prefer the moon, anyway).

what orchard must i traverse–
where might i pick plum lips
and blackberry breasts made
to suckle sweet milk?

where are the others–
the ones like me?

i wait, i want, i write

there is just enough time left
to touch myself until i come silently
with my mouth open in the dark
and no sound emitted,

to push my face into the sheets
and the pillows and breathe in their smell
like the creeper i am,

to creep about the living room
washing dishes and cleaning things
and pick up the clothes on the bedroom floor
like a housewife

and roll around,content housecat,
on the bed in my underwear

without your gaze pulling those strings
that tighten my shoulders
and lace my spine with shivering needles.

there is just enough time left
to sense the difference between my fingers
and yours touching the most sensitive cunt in the world

to note with throbbing olfactory bulb
the fading fragrance of your hair
and unwashed skin,

to throw things around the room
for the sake of a mess to occupy my mind,

to acknowledge the futility of half-nakedness
without your leer to make it naughty

without your gaze pulling those strings
that straighten my spine with consciousness
of your presence, and gently shakes my spine

before you come home to me at last.

fucking retarded, yeah

i am a stupid fool for the boy
and his tricks, his twisting paths
of words through knotted crevices
of my brain and the tortured pussy
he ravages with his rough hands
his rough nails, an idiot

for torn skin and green-tinged bruises
littering my shoulders with epaulets
as symbols of our wars,

a dumbass for his bad rap
and clever lyricists, for raunchy jokes
and rancid flesh and trembling spine
and broken skin on my collarbone,
my hipbone,
that patch of skin between my arm
and underneath

an ass for his ass slick with sweat
under my nails and quivering with coming
and coming and coming, going crazy
for the tenderness of his lips
and darting tongue,

a raving fucking lunatic alive
with the electricity of his touch
and lassitude, his languid laughter,
his dark-eyed long-lashed let-me glare
over my shoulder in the blue glow of tv screens
and predawn sky

i am a jackass (of hyperbolic proportions)
for the slap-stung starving stasis between
leaving for work and working on me,
working on us,
fighting my demons, crushing my walls,
breaking my will to his whip and the wilderness
of his bed unwinding every snarl and whorl and
tangle of my psyche–

a sucker for his lopsided alien grin,
his twitchy fingers and that luxurious fucking sweep
of spine and hipbones like baby bird wings furled
and that old-tree complexion and oh oh oh
stupid, baby
i’m stupid for you, knot me in ropes
of spineless boyflesh
and keep me for good,

the priest and the parishioner

after showering this morning
i creep half naked into bed with you
and rest my face against your skin
to take the measure of my body heat’s legacy;

i press my lips to the length of your thigh
beneath the blanket; i shut my eyes in reverie.
i trace the curl of your twitching fingers
(i smell so lovely on your skin!), i touch my lips
to each ridge of rib, sheathed in the color of oaks.

i speak the offering of my love
to the glimpse of your sleeping cock
which i catch uncovered by the blanket,
squeeze my eyes shut slowly in memory
and rest, momentarily;

after reflection passes
i lift myself over the planes of your side
to push my last lines into the languid curve
of your brown back, central point
to the still river that is you

and again i rest,
prayer ended.

vice, verse, vita

after sex louder than usual
we lay half-awake, listening
and learning– gently pushing
past kiss-tender lips
our stories, tasting thoughts
a bit damp from spit (and all the shinier for it,
glistening with shyness and need)

wallowing in words, rhapsodizing
about wordsmiths like burroughs
and cummings,
contrasting ella and billie and etta
and giggling over duke,

huddled together in the predawn peace
of a bed strewn with blankets
like a pair of coffee shop masters
too tired to reach the machine

trading pieces of pensive lyric,
lazy sleepsweet language
and a little bit of lewd love–
playing at being together
until the act stads as proof
of art imitating impersonating

soldier, vandalized

this afternoon reveals me
as a soldier in the seventh regiment
of sex, adorned with red ribbons
on my back and neck and shoulders
and purpled glowing epaulets realized
on both shoulders in sharp relief–

medals to mashochism gleam
over the glowing white ruffle of my collar,
ringing the coffee brown of my skin
in blackish impressions of angry teeth
and sweet lips,
sweat stains and skin beneath my nails
in the shower each afternoon
(one sleeps rather late
after fighting these battles).

in the midday blue of our room
where currently we have called an armistice,
smoke-shaded light seeping through heavy drapes
to decorate the bed in weak summer hues
outlines the sleeping figure of my lover,
mouth open (those lethal teeth so harmlessly latent now)
and dreaming of god knows what

as i slip away to scribble yet another exhibition
of his brutality, of his fervor–
to spray more graphic graffiti
onto the museum walls of my mind.