A bite of meat
I dare not eat.
I'll have some fruit instead.

No milk for me
Why, can't you see?
I'd rather have some bread.

Faces haunting
Proteins taunting..
I don't want it if it's meaty.

You like to eat entrails
and brains,
A bit like zombies--beastly!

Hormone laden,
Child-sacrifice
to make the thing called "Veal".

I can't believe what you go through
for your tasty high priced meal.

When I read, I speak,
And when I speak, I read
Words rolling off my eyes,
Filling my tongue full of free--
Style rhyming and rhythm.

The canons of thought rolling out with a boom.
Pachelbel changing your direction of flow
Through some Perverse, Obscure, Rehearsal

Suddenly Reversed.

Back where you started,
Starting over again,
With a pen in your hand
The words crowding your head.

Gotta jump and tumble
To the jiggle and flow
Of the individualistic,
Unrealistic,
Even cannibalistic

Creations that grow.
From your stylus,
Rife.

Words.

They're the stuff of life.

Hoarfrost lipstick
Touches not-dead-enough lips.
She's limp and entangled in branches.

Unfeeling fingers
Snap newly-formed buds
Breath puffing and gasping, he glances.

"Pretty...
...my pretty...my pretty cold doll!
See how the snow on her dances?

Almost...almost finished.
Just need the rest...
That last one got covered in scratches..."

Bone-numbing cuffs,
Can't scream from the gag.
She's trembling and sobbing in snatches.

"Shhhhhhhhhhh...

I just need your arms...
such pretty white limbs!.."
He picks up his shears, and advances.

Sliding fingers over alabaster shafts,
crevices and nooks catching at delving digits
as they seek between the bloody flaps of
remov-ed meat.

For before the bones the meat.
And before the meat the scalpel,
Running liquid through the tendrils
with its clever carv-ed lines in the
succulent,
decadent
dead.

The gore on the board.
Seen in rivulets of scarlet,
A tracery of cuts,
Multi-layered and exquisite.

I taste the smell of this corpulent finery.
Hands reaching into the layers,
slick with blood
pulling at the fat.
Sleek and deadly
I ply them, my tools.

For I am the butcher
And you will eat my meat.
Feast upon my carnage,
And leave me with the bones.

And leave me with the bones.

Spectacles slipped into the mine-shaft of mine own thoughts.
What was I doing leaning so far over, looking down the mirror?
To dig them out again, is to reach into my innermost and cry with vengeance sought
after fallen imagery.
A downy trap to trip me,
crawling,
to the bottom of The Well.
It is well-thought to pick up the spectacles before climbing back out again.
Naught but a pinprick of light, a shining shaft,
to guide me.
The crevices of luck leading back to the place where my spectacles can be of use.
Here? It is the climbing, dark, murky
Raiment of the rocks around me.
The dimmest glow surrounds,
and   I
               climb
                               UP

Is it blind to see from different perspective?
Perspective is reality.
Reality is what you make it.
Make it....your perspective.
Respectively we decide to make it ours,
Ours which can't always be theirs,
So should theirs always be ours?
Or is it ok to be blind?
Blinded by theirs, blinded by ours,
Stuck in a single white-rabbit hole of clarity,
Thinking it's reality.
Waiting for the smoke to clear,
So we can see which way was ours again,
So we can see which way was theirs.
Then blind ourselves to every-which-way but one--That One.
Self-blinding vision,
is this reality.
Now hand me the goddamn mushroom, please.

Scruffy and unkempt,
The manic look of someone who's stayed up 36 hours.
Still drove 10 hours for a bunch of strangers.
Had no idea what you were getting into.

A chance greeting of "Hello New Friend!",
The taking of an empty seat.
You had never cracked a bullwhip--I know, 'cause you confessed it.
Your mad scientist brain instantly found the perfect chemistry:
Bad jokes and photography.

A bit of flirting.
"I'm not looking for anything right now".
Still talking by the campfire at dawn,
Arms wrapped round for warmth.

You shoved your number in my pocket,
Hot pink marker scrawled on a scrap of paper.

Phone calls and g-chat.
Mostly porn jokes and bad music references.
Some serious stuff too..
Confessions--you're more 'you' around 'me'.

Midnight and both of us complaining-- not getting enough sleep.
Stretching it out until 1 AM, 2 AM, 3...
Left each other with squid-diddled desirous tentacles,
Havoc on our senses.
Senseless at work.

And you're actually being honest--don't have the backbone to lie.
You're not greedy, or sleezy, or trying to use me.
Course, you're killing me with those unsigned divorce papers...

No dreamer--realistic.
But damned if you don't hit every weak spot.
Walls broken, just the hint of a smile.
Damn good thing there's a few hundred miles between us.

Black and hell and triple damn..
..I miss you...
When are you coming back?

Let me lean into your hair and breathe in your warm, clean scent.
Tackle me with tickling fingers, knock me over, make me squirm.
I'll nibble on your neck a bit, and make a dirty joke.
You'll drag me up and down the block, till we've searched out every coffee shop, and reading nook, and weird demented new-age store,
With scary guys with scary hair leaning over the counter offering you 'Fairy Dust' for good luck, or maybe this book about trolls?
Then I'll drag you back down a different block, and through the city and all the buildings.
Looking up and up and up.
Falling over our own four feet as we race the dusky-shadowed building monsters from one end of the bay to the other.
Exhausted by our chase, we stumble into yet another hole-in-the-wall to steal some warm recuperation.
You wrap me up in arms and drink, while telling me all about your life.
Then you prod me for details of things I never talk about, and make it seem like no big deal. I mean, hey, it's only you after all.
Next you grab your camera in one hand, and my hand in the other, dragging me back out the door, already clicking fast the shutter.
But it's night! So what? It's the city, there's light.
So you keep right on clicking and posing and grasping at figments, air where you think you might best find a shot, that would hold me to you on the screen later on.
You keep clicking and clicking, till I finally get tired. Then you, sensing me, make up for my sudden lack of enthuse, and drag me further to a club strobing with lights.
We dance there for hours, till the club's shutting down, catch a yellow-topped cab, rumbling and slow. You hang up your camera, I hang up my coat.
Time for a movie and popcorn, hot chocolate in bed. I'll fall asleep, wrapped in comforter, my pillow still breathing. You might wake me up, after the movie is finished, just in time for a few pre-dawn kisses.
A few hours sleep, my head tucked under your chin. Dreaming separate dreams, together.
Our limp-tangled limbs greet the shade-prying strips of sunlight with unconscious aplomb.

To write with tongue in pen,
Saliva dripping ink.
The heady-remembered sensation
Of flavors long forgotten.
Sifted with fingers floured,
Arms limp from kneading
To have them
Penned to perfect succulency.
Until they are coined to smooth and creamy texture.
The rich-written smell of impatient waiting
For oven-crisped words, over-penned with
Timer-gone-slow.
The salt and pepper of a final read-through
Always spelling disaster to our over-spiced and cooled,
Now cookie-cut words.
The souffle sinking deep in the pan of it's paper-page dish.
Till loving eyes scoop up that first tender-tasting bite,
Till the sound of a thought drifts over two lips
With a satisfied sigh.
Our long-awaited, frustrated, penful recital:
Experimental, new-dished-out, tempting
A-rivals.
Bellies full, read-through finished, enough of the sauce.
We clear the dishes with the simple act
Of turning over the cloth,
To the next blank page.

Open wide the doors of your arms,
Knob-hands turning with a long-lost key.
Raise the sash of your windowed eyes,
Fluttering lash-curtains hiding you from me.

I want
From your hands, comfort.
Rough-gliding touch chasing demons on my skin.
From your eyes, truth.
Deep-buried wisdom found in your secret glancing.

Give me
Fingertips of pleasure.
Glimpses of your innermost.

Bring me
Hand-in-hand to a park bench at dusk.
Moist-rimmed, back from the well of undoing.

Catch me up,
Safely bound within your arms,
Locked tight in your embrace.
Hold me there,
With just a glance-
Swift look upon your face.

I after-taste like french fries,
I here-now taste like gum
All minty-fresh and sparkling,
Going plip-plop on my tongue.

The fries were nice and hot,
With a crispy outer skin.
The burned my mouth a lot,
But I kept shoveling 'em right on in!

Now my tongue it kind of hates me,
And my mouth it is real sore.
So I'll get a Wendy's frosty,
'Cuz soft-serve chocolate's insta-cure!

A shot
    to the mouth.
A blow
    of words.
A moment
    of silent intake.


Enough.
    to wonder
What it was?
    that caused this,
His mistake.

The whispered sweet & sour taste,
        of smoky bottled kiss.
The perfect feel of silken flowing
        drifts upon our lips.
A tingle, smooth and sliding feel
        burn drifting down our throat.
A glass of rocks, all empty
        sure, slow reaching for our coat.

I'm not one of those people
Who can bury that itch,
So very down deep
That they can't even scratch.

Certainly, most days, I'm satisfied with Me,
Just can't seem to be satisfied with Just me.

I want four hands, not two,
And four feet, covered in warm woolen socks between sheets.
I want clamoring voice from a throat that's not mine.
I want two heads, two hearts,
Two toothbrushes.

Different length hair in the shower
(You clean it out)
Accidental-shrunken work shirts
Cussing fights while I finish the laundry
Surprise apologies later.

Nights of scheduling compromise
Days of scheduling compromise
How many sick days can we skip work with?

I don't need some long-distance,
Not-a-relationship
Just-friends-with-benefits
Bullshit.

I cannot hug me
I cannot bury my face in my chest
And just breathe.
My arms don't reach far enough,
And I get a crick in my neck only to find that
My shirts just smell like cheap soap.

Not looking for marriage.
Ten years until kids.
Maybe a dog later on.
We'll walk it together, and you can bag the poo...

It could be I'm just too addicted to sex.
Or maybe I wear too much lingerie.
My corsets and evening gowns show too much of my flesh?
I know too many good random subjects for conversation?
My butt looks too good.
Your butt looks too good?

Pick one and tell me,
So I can  find that one thing
That keeps the timing from not lining up
Or lets me meet men that aren't married, or
Under 18, Under 21, Under-able to carry out a conversation with words longer than 2 syllables.

I probably won't even see it coming,
That day when I find that someone who satisfies Just Me.
But for now, can I please find
Someone to just satisfy me?

Little bitty, battered bodies,
all broken and beat up.
Slathered in a spicy soy sauce,
tiny shrimplings I eat up.

Fast and fresh and greasy too,
fried and hot and sticky!
They take three minutes just to make,
till I crunch them little bitty!

I stood next to this guy, today
         And had to give him props.
'Cause when I farted next to him,
         He didn't call the cops.
My death-by-smell he did ignore,
         He even had me laughing!
When he said how he enjoyed
        A truly public gassing!

I taste your cunt
            with bold-tongue flick,
your drops upon my chin.

You taste a bit
        like Captain Crunch,
and better yet-- like win.

I weep and rage and want to fix
a pain I did not cause,
And rip wide into stupid men,
with sharpened deadly claws.

Some stuck from fear, and some from pain
and some just in denial,
For those I search, for those I reach,
and go the extra mile.

2 a.m.
Dancing in shadow, feeling music
through the soles of our feet-
Creating need in each other
with slow, perfect rhythm
and hard, urgent kiss.
The consequence will be the same-
if we make love or if we don't.
At 2am I'll be missing you
more than you will know.

The desire to continue
flows through me with wicked tempting.
Touch you?
Like hot wax off a candle.
Stinging, burning, wanting.
Knowing it will be harder.
To let go.
To lay you on top of me.
Wanting it harder with that harder knowing.
I will perchance regret---
Nothing.
Only miss.

Till dawn.
We've got,
        and only that
Before you disappear through dew-covered grass.
So we lay,
     flat on my back.
Our scents tangled, vision blind,
      biting and swearing,
kissing and crying.

The light reveals your eyes to me.

I scream and rail, and push you off--
        I grab my clothes and run
Knowing you will never follow me.
        The dawn has killed our fun.