First, the ground shakes
It starts soft, the quiver of a woman's thighs
An ever mounting pleasure tremor bearing on towards it's ******
But this is not that hold me closer moment. This is something else.
Second, the sound reaches our ears
The piercing banshee wail, the wordless cry of feeling,
And the cyclical heartbeat of wood and metal churning
Ceaselessly rhythmic
Reminding me of
(ba-bum ba-bum)
That feeble imitation
(ba-bum ba-bum)
Of your beating love
(ba-bum ba-bum)
That you make with your mouth
Of putting my palm to your chest and feeling the echoes of longing
As you close your eyes and lean in to skin
Third, the silhouette of our stock still standing figures
The empty air of the future so brightly lit
I preferred staring back into the love-blind dark
This light is cold
This light leaves us nowhere to hide
Skyscrapers topple as
The city makes way
I make way, with one step away
From you
As the motion breeze begins
To ruffle your hair
We split
I turn
The train is coming
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Fluorescent flickers illuminate the stained cement floors of the hallway. Your slippered feet music an uneven pad and scuff. This ***** city is home, whatever that means. This ***** city holds you like you're someone else's child. A burst of joy and music reaches for you through the window; someone bangs a door and you turn on the tap. As water sputters onto your toothbrush you catch a whiff of Dakota Jim's racist southern drawl, a puff of his ketamine breath.
You walk to the window, toothbrush dangling.
[Oh London, I know you love no one, but nights like this I feel your heartbeat in your embrace.]
History swells beneath your feet. Your eyes land on a seated figure, his grand headdress of feathers overpowering the tableau, his gaze calmer than the other mad happy swirls that make up the crowd. It makes you wonder what he sees. Probably nothing. You will learn that when he seems profound it is usually an accident. You are penned in by jagged skyline hieroglyphics. History swells. Your heavy hearted story is a speck consumed in all this history. All the history you were taught in school was death, you remember your mother bemoaning this war generals and battle dates history. You wonder at how much death this place has seen, how many lives the city has birthed and eaten, hungry mother staving off starvation.
We all write our stories on other people's bones. Of course the greatest cities would leave the greatest scars. And what did you come here looking for anyway?
[Hello Momento Mori city. I see you. I see your rooftops straining to **** stars. Do you mourn for your dead? Are they heavy in your belly? Are you going to eat me, too?]
But now, if you drag your little mind back from the immensities, everything around you is alive. Everyone is dancing, happy to be caught in her belly. Or her womb. Not one of you knows which, but there you are. In the courtyard, the small, steady figure of Freddie Stitz brings a lit cigarette to his lips and smiles up at you in the window.
Wipe that toothpaste off your face, you look ridiculous. Go back to bed.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
there is a feeling
warm and tingling and
sweet
when i think about the
way i make you twitch
like your body is made of need
like nothing else is left
when i think about your fingers and my flesh
pressing and and
your breath on my lips your
smell
there is a feeling
it shoots up the centre of my body
from somewhere low
from somewhere base
when i remember opening for you
melting for you and how
you took what i offered
and gave me no
barrier between us
there is a feeling
all about the warm place
under the bony bit
in the middle of my chest
like my body was only made
to hold my beating heart
and it's about to fail
and i'm not sure where my
limbs are
until my hands find your skin
when we are slightly damp
and pressed together
when your kisses start
to mean something different
when you thank me again again when
you see me
and then you leave and
there is a feeling
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
You make comic book origin stories fascinating
Ninja Turtles and the Swamp Thing
As I let my eyes roam over you I somehow take it in
Though you may have to tell me again
I could devour you
Take you into my body and keep you
I would open in your hands like a stuck jam jar
To the strongest man in the world
I was looking at your hands today
Rough
A freckle oddly placed on one finger
My eyes at your shirt collar
Where it meets your neck
Her name staring back at me, ignored
I imagine flesh
At home I take the hottest shower
To wash away falling in love
But all I lose is your smell
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
Split me, canyon style,
My yawning maw ribcage
Showing pink-wet guts.
Take another step and let me swallow you.
(Come) it's soft in here.
(Come) it's safe in here.
(Come on) spill love,
Let my tongue-heart taste you,
A prayer to muscle.
For love is a muscle,
A soft, warm muscle;
And woman is muscle,
A strong bend muscle.
Woman resides in your eyes on my skin.
The prayer hides in the sighs of your sin.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
The truth is, there was no shaking, breaking,
waking from a dream. Though
the steam in my brain did condense into tears. That was true.
The truth is, you are the only man I've ever wanted
to hold me while I fall asleep;
and the gap between our bodies,
then measured in inches, was whispering
bedtime stories about just how far away
you were about to go.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
The sleeping creature in my chest,
The curled up cuddly fuzz-ball,
Is feline, but no tame house cat.
Is soft furred in rest, and porcupine quilled in anger.
Her sharp teeth are usually hidden
Behind adorable whiskers and damp pink nose.
Sometimes her claws worry affectionately
At my ribs for attention,
Just so I don't forget she's there.
Today she is mad, frenzied,
Her proud cat dignity has vanished, she almost dances.
She chases her tale like the simple fool she is not.
She opens her mouth, not to bare her teeth,
But to mewl a plea for a mysterious something.
She buts her head against my heart again and again,
Knocking it off rhythm,
Rubbing it warmer with her fur,
Batting it and chewing it like her new favourite toy,
While I sweat
And stammer
And breathe too fast
And beat too fast,
And all for what?
You gave me your hoodie.
She caught one fragile whiff
Of your vetiver tinted catnip scent.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC