In splendor
you lie open,
my saliva kisses
cover every nerve
of your heart
& between
the hardness
in my fingertips
& the sky above,
I pull the strings
of my warm love.

I grasp a rose
between my teeth
& lie alone
in silence
clenching you.

Virtue & integrity
cling to my bones
like spent pieces of armor
carrying the
dings & dents of
loving-combat.

My thoughts of you
& what you do to me
are forever imbedded
in my tortured mind,
now too weak
to follow principles,
for my heart does overly lie
& my lips remain sealed.

In agony,
I await the coming sun
to bring me light,
& to stop this internal fight
of loving you.

Thoughts of you
linger in my mind
as you count the pathways
to your heart,
sifting through sensations
to meet the demands
of your fiery-wantonness
& in order to fulfill
a simple act
of lovingkindness,
I want to taste your fingers.

I'm gonna tell you how I feel
and pray you still feel the same too.

Chopping it off is my expression.
I've had this same chop since I was not
        even seven.
Chop it all off and rid the rotten in my
        past.
I'll miss my curly locks, but I've got to
        move on.  Anyway, this won't last.

I know I sound like Miley,
and soon I'll look her,
but one thing's for sure:
I'm doing this for me.

I look at you on the sofa.
Lying there all young, healthy
And warm, and I don't just want you
In the obvious sense; I want your
Liver, kidneys, flat stomach, strong,
Long, young legs.
Frankenstein's parts-storage
I want your youth.  

I can't have it. I can't take it
And have it. Angry. I want to
Kick your ***, but not really.
I want your mouth to
Expell something
Other than this
Teenage girl
Chatter.

I want to hit your pretty face
With all of my one-third-life-crisis-
Frustration behind it
With a pillow.
Eat feather, child!
Chew cotton!
Munch goose!

Straight left-straight right.
I have fought men
Twice my size,
I'll beat you up
Until you
Suffocate
And surrender
From
Laughing
So
Hard.

You lean over me,
Reaching for some product
That makes you either

Taste, feel, look or smell like
Things hanging from
Trees in warm countries, or

Nails pink, black or back to
Natural. Upper arm so
Close to my face

I can't resist
Leaning into it;
Mouth and eyelid

First. You shift in
Confirmation. I feel and
Smell; find myself

More than six feet under
This divine concept
Of Woman. Girl. Other

Half. God in Man.
Buried and blissful.
Breathing with ease in

The sweet soil that
Covers
Me.

I'm just a man.
I think things can be fixed.

My first aid kit contains
Super glue and duct tape.

Any box is a tool box to me;
I'll always look for the right

***** to reattach your self-
Esteem; the right clamps to hold

Your good days together. When
You cry, I want to open you up

Gently, lay out all your parts and
Find the leaking gasket.

I am writing this as
I stand -beer in hand- watching
Neil Gaiman being

Interviewed on stage in
Oslo. He has more to say
Than many, to poets

And those living lives; others.
"Writing is like composting.  
You have an idea. You

Leave it to rot... and
Things will grow
From it."