Lavish her with precious metals,
watch her sink under their weight.
Down. Lower.
The Tiffany necklace pulls her;
becomes the choke collar
you always wanted.  
Distract her with shiny bobbles,
tokens of your love and ownership.
What girl refuses that blue box?
Let her untie the white ribbon and
ignorantly open her cell.
Gladly fasten chains on
her dainty fingers,
her frail wrists,
her tender neck.

Nothing can heat
your side of the bed.
Cold in your absence;
cold still with your heart.

Windows mask the rain,
while alone and dry I wait
for the coming storm.

Get a tailor.
If speeches are edited, so should your clothes.
Suits shouldn’t be as big as your dreams.

Marry and be miserable;
or stay a bachelor and
bite the bullet at the ballot box.
Don’t love your mistresses.
Never let a mistress fall in love with you.

Cultivate coldness over glass of sweet tea
and write your principles in pencil,
but keep erasers handy.
Lead gets heavy with idealism.

Cover your tracks with charm,
but keep track of your steps.
Push down ladders as you climb them.

Finally, when you see your reflection in the gloss of your desk
and feel the smooth curves of your cherry bookshelves,
remember that under that finish are the remnants
of what once stood tall and proud.
A glossy exterior can only hope to mask a wild past.

And when you tire of tamed marble;
seeing yourself reflected in nature cut and polished,
come to the sea.
Cast off your leather shoes
– those casualties of your closet –
Roll your suit pants.
Stand firm and absolute.

You, the blond, bright-eyed pilgrim–
camouflaged in slate suits and
ties that hang like nooses.
Love the biting wind as it tousles your hair.
The coldness that demands to be felt.
Let it break like the surf, through your suit
and note the driftwood as it crashes to shore.
So smooth and strange.
A product of its past,
perfect in its imperfection.

Strip me of my sins,
Exercise my body of its demons.
Leave it shaking as it rides
the long, hard road to absolution.
Teach me in doctrines Old and New
the routes to salvations gate.
Take me again and again.
Make pious lips part and moan
wordless prayers in praise of You.
– my heavenly guide.
– The one I always come with.

Six months
of denying our existence.
“I’m so proud to say you’re not in my life;
I don’t know what I’d do with you.”
You’re the empty chair at the table,
… the cold side of the bed,
… the dial tone on the phone,
… the omnipotent absence
I’ve built my life around.

Six months
of no commitments, no definitions,
because you can’t define nonexistence.
We are a wordless nothing
consummated on a bed
of verse, novels, and music -
the only acceptable means of expression,
because you can’t speak in a wordless nothing;
can’t love or live in a wordless nothing.

Six months later
you’ll wake with bloodshot eyes,
frantically searching for
… the mind you lost
… the body you broke
… the heart you tore out.
Irrecoverable offerings to someone
whose existence was proven by their absence
and defined not by what they took,
but by what they made you want to give.

Your favourite vice.
That mistress you light up when
you need a quick fix.
Just another cigarette in the pack
and fragile as ash.
You’ll flick me away
when you’re through.
A short term side effect;
a disposable delight.

But I’ve always been flammable.
So go on,
light me up.
Watch me burn.