july 2010

i can(‘t) do almost anything to you

the world outside my head is separate from me.
i find myself often wishing to reach for your hand
and pull you/seduce you inside of me in vulgar and vulnerable ways
so we could sit crosslegged in the center of my skull,
your back to mine, in silence.
i asked you whether there are freckles on your back
and though i didn’t think of it then
i wonder now if i wanted to know if maps exist in your flesh
to guide me down to where your heart lies asleep,
into your skull where i can tiptoe on your spinal cord
and leap off into the canyons of gray matter where you hide.
i am trapped in my skull.
you are buried in that brain.

coffee accelerated, cold-hurting, late night sensual i sit here,
refusing sleep though its eyes loom luminous over my shoulder curious and waiting–
he thinks i’ll go with him. think twice, morpheus; your will is no match for mine,
not when i ache from the follicles in my scalp to the commas of my hips pausing for breath
to inhale between my thighs new concepts of sensation and sex i have not had.

sometimes i feel as if i am not a good friend to you. needing to be a good friend to you
is overshadowed often by longing to be a lover curved like carved wood over
the bones of your hips in morning light; desire has almost always (especially lately) eclipsed duty
and this is one of many reasons you will not let me have you.
i want you.

my mouth is closed but i am speaking to you with roving tongue over slick teeth:
they should be clamped on your earlobe,
my nails deserve to tattoo your back in blood henna
my ankles to hook over yours
i belong as a trap to ensnare you and you will not let me close.
you insist that i remain wide and waiting
and hungry for your submission.

forever is not logical,
but i refuse never.

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mea culpa maria

i apologized
not with my mouth but
words these things are
too difficult for my mouth
to contort into the shapes of but
i apologized
and it did not make me cry
to say i am sorry
sometimes my pride rears
like african lions with native american hearts
and french arrogance
i am all those things and more

i apologized with dry eyes
to my little humble queen
she is actually bigger than me
she dwarfs me in all honesty
she is still my little humble queen

i said i am sorry and i meant it
rare, that i mean an apology
[i do not believe in sorry but
she warrants occasional lapses in habit]

little queen upon whom
i have heaped rages and hurts
deserved by others
little kitten who has tasted
only the sourest cream from my dishes

miniature aptly-named madonna-girl
you do not deserve my tiger-madness
my lionhurt
my leopard rage
i know it
you walk willingly across my savannah

i cannot keep the ground treacherous for you
any longer
i am sorry

basquiat was insane and so were the others

a year before i was born
one of those comet-creatures
(yet another) overdosed, died.

while watching a movie about his life
i was shocked to see someone
appreciate his work premortem

(death is after all what skyrockets true artists to fame)

reflecting on reflections of past genius
blurred by cocaine dust and paint smears
i think of two things:

there are few things more beautiful
than coltish gents in lace and lengthy gowns
or cybergoth dress
(or any other attire that makes society squirm
in erotic humiliation)

and/or men in loose clothes and paint spatters;

poets and picture-takers are crazy
musicians are fucked up but
you know as well as i do that the truly insane
(you know, the ones who make psychotic sound like “exquisite”)
are those fucking painters

i’ve perfected the art of selective amnesia

between the trauma of the act
and imagined tortures–
how convenient, forgetting
the excruciating gorgeous pain of your teeth
sinking into my neck,
your clothed hips against my clothed hips
in frantic friction

of sheets smelling of your skin
choking off my air flow

the magmaflush creeping from beneath your mouth
to the gaping shuddering pit in my stomach,
open wide to let lightning streak into my cunt
and melt down to the mattress

how convenient,  forgetting the taste of your name
of your sweet smoker’s breath
of the blood on the side of your tongue where you bit it
that one time

of my eyes shut fast against the darkness
and the first time submission ever sounded like victory.

between the front and back of my nightshirt
beneath my breast(s)
ached/stomped the starved marathon runner
they call my heart;

i forgot you were the starting gun.

what glorious amnesia
what saving dementia
what perfect timing
what bullshit

my mother says cell phones open up whole new avenues for rudeness

(call me)

overly ambitious,
longing to be not merely the
-ship but the full ocean
with arms wide outstretched,
as if i could hold all the world
if i pleased

(i would want to)

call me overreaching
wanting both to drown
and be drowned
to be the prostrate lover choking up water
and the bent savior bestowing kisses of life; call me

silly
needing to be your rock
in the same stormy seas i wish to become,
and the barnacle clinging with infinite tenacity
to your ribs
for the sake of your heartbeat as a lullaby;

call me insane for desire,
call me a lost cause,

call me

(i swear i’ll answer the phone this time)