She cannot be any more for me.
Cannot touch, cannot see or know
What it would mean to lie beside her.
Below or above or inside her.
I cannot kiss her skin enough
To satisfy my tongue,
At root, amid tonsil and gum.
There is nothing between my legs
To satisfy the ache I’ve beshouldered.
Nor to give her what she wants.
And yet to be the bearer of such lofty arms,
I have not the strength
To hold her to me, tight enough
Nor strength to let her go.
Therefore pianist or organist,
No digits can so far reach
To abrade this itch within me.
To what worldly force there is to bray,
No hips move expeditiously
Enough to shake this wanting free
Not rhetoric, charm nor Rationale
Bestow words to dissuade my need.
I have no arms to pull her closely,
Nor shape to fit her skin.
Yet I cannot be any less for her.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 3:25 PM UTC
I swear she’s just a child, yet she holds my head in her hands.
Grasps me like a haphazard rock atop a traffic cone.
And like a bandy Goliath
She tests my lips like cold waters on toes.
Trying for the first time the likes of my hulking frame.
And she purses her lips and tastes what’s been done.
I can only be still for her, searching her
If she needs me, I’m here for her
For the decision of a mistake or a realisation.
Yet how can she be a child; she holds my head in her hands.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 3:23 PM UTC
Bottoms of glasses, under ***** caps and vases. In pepper pots, though holes in socks, twixt blooming buds and fasteners. Kitchen’s sink; shades of pink, through willow-wood hearts and:
Behind Polaroid frames and flashbulb flays, measuring pixels and yards and:
In sewing thimbles, between knitting needles; gentle beetles, playing cards and:
Through laddered tights and telephone drawers, on written paper under boarded floors. On cotton shirts caked with dirt and in refuge sacks of reticence begirt. Cushion covers and shopping bags, through electrical wire and sodden rags. Under flower pots, inside sticky locks. In coffee mugs and china cups, Teabags and teaspoons and niches for tee lights. Bottle necks, glass jars, coin dish, cream jugs. Window sills, knife block, light bulbs, plugs. Plate stack, lotion *** saucer, dust. Record slips, ornaments, lamp, clock. Table, chair: drink and sit around it.
I’ve hidden my heart almost everywhere and you still haven’t found it.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
They’ll let me live
When there are no longer words for me.
They’ll let me exist
While there are still terms to divide me.
And what will happen when the world let us be?
I’ll kiss your brow and touch your cheek and balance your head so precariously.
And what will happen when they don’t judge me?
Let us be. Let us be.
I’ll hold up the sky and fail to breathe and the world will awake simultaneously.
And until that day, I have no plead.
And I’ll kiss the floor.
And they’ll kick my knees.
And the world will laugh itself hoarse at me.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 3:12 PM UTC
so I drank half the bottle
to tell her how I felt
but wasn't home that morning;
she took me straight to bed.
though all I am is a drunkard -
my best to gasp and writhe.
and the only landslide I want to cause:
convulsions between her thighs.
All cross eyed, in dead men's skies.
and I could sleep beneath dancers.
but as for now I'll play my fill
But she'll struggle to move me after.
Until then she does try and try
to make me gasp and writhe.
But she can feel what I cannot -
Breathing "I love you"s between her sighs.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 3:11 PM UTC
Making minds that hide behind pixelated eyes-
Dance like fools and fire to flies.
Glued to the screens of the likes of me;
You’re their dream.
But does she look in the mirror and see what they see,
Eurhythmic grace, or just celestial obscene?
Do we know your name, Dream?
Or should I call you Beauty Queen?
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 3:10 PM UTC
Remember that day, you looked me in the face?
The reflection of the sun leaving lines in it’s place.
Blue eyes mean nothing but reflections of skies
All they’ll do is dazzle you, so look on behind,
because superficial mirrors are these eyes of mine
black, as is night, when the moon won’t shine,
and in stormy weather are only a sign:
That the world appears different, through overcast eyes.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC