Tied to furniture
in near-weeping posture:
lust can always bring you here,
carried in its spider-cradle arms,
eager for my marks
across your hidden spots.

I am your ***** little secret,
*****.

I have erased my name,
in shadows lurk,
behind barely closed curtains,
watched by Gideon Bibles,
hazed in blue television light,

your only sound,
barely abled gasps of,
"Yes, Daddy...please, Sir.
Yes, Daddy...hurt me more."

Tied down,
bruised,
bitten,
opened,
all your secrets revealed,

collapse
into the pool of *******,
muddle your words just enough
smile your bottom lip,
cutting against your teeth.

I have won the respect of the princess,
shown her the strength she has,
awoken her mind.

My reward is the ownership of her whorish body.

There is a long tail of madness
that echoes from this wreckage. Molotov is making cocktails,
as Kalashnikov assaults us
at forty-two plus five.

Triptamine takes the backseat,
and your carpet bombs
lay me to waste,
******.

We had such a luminous trial
survived our sentence, self-imposed
on cluttered hearts.

We could have had everything...

But you started listening to other voices
The ones outside our heads,
fused at the soft-spots.
The ones that sang sweet ******,
the ones we left our suicide
to please

and those murmuring homicides
murdered what we were,
scalped our skulls apart,
and you let them.

I have been bleeding to death
from the top of my brain
ever since.

I am grocery bags,
carried through your rain,
now split at their soggy bottoms
spilling what you filled me with
(fresh produce, water, sustenance)
all over the ground
like rotten, polluted, abandoned
trash.

The concourse lays out between you and I,
allow this reprimand,
accept this brokerage
in escrow.

Weep the clouds
out of those spinning absences you left,
broken, open, empty,
and full of terror.

you will *** for Me, until you cannot speak
and for that,
you will call Me, "Daddy."

you will mold to My desire, which is only to better you
and for that,
you will call Me, "Sir."

you will bend to Me, but I won't break you
and for that,
you will call Me, "Master."

I was sailing back to you,
I would have sailed all the way across those
vicious seas, through the rocks,
on your breeze.

I would have caught your tailwind,
and sailed, like Magellan, around the globe,
but you were turning the Earth against me.

I would have sailed back to you,
tattered sheets on splintered masts,
makeshift oars to guide me, broken.

I would have sailed back to you,
to your harbor, crumbling,
and helped repair it, fixed.

I would have sailed back to you,
but
your tailwind became a headwind,
you burned my sails,
shattered my masts,
stole away my oars, and
destroyed your harbor.

And now I float,
desperate
starving
thirsting...

But I am now finding,
in the absence of your blinding star light,
that there are other harbors
that could save me from
the storm that you've become.

You've got a little secret, don't you?

The women envious of that ***,
jealous of those eyes,
hating your hips and *******,

the men hungry for that ***,
hypnotized by those eyes,
mouths watering for those hips and *******,

but they know that
you are a good girl
you don't do those terrible things they think
you are innocent, pure, locked up
tight.

But you've got a ***** little secret, don't you?

You walk around with
your skin burning for a touch
your mouth begging for a ****
your ******* longing to be pinched and pulled
your *** eager for a *******
your throat hoping to be choked
**** cheeks burning for a beating
and a warm little wet spot on your *******
all day long.

You've got a secret,
a ***** little secret,
don't you?

Scrawling drawings in bone coins,
desperately attempt to pull you from a hole of
skipping heart and
tightening chest.

My pen is crooked,
my lines are numb,
and I'm wishing you were awake.

Little girl,
lay your weary head in the black space
that is unwinding between us,
a void to lose yourself in.

A train-station railway burning down to bare metal,
a dove flying away and spreading the ash.
If only that dove could carry you away somewhere
safe inside my mind.

The bone in your heart
chokes you sometimes.
I'd ease all of your concern
with a touch.

Your heart is dark-clouds.

Lay your weary head in my lap,
little girl,
dream of dandelions floating away
through this cloudless, broad blue sky,
bend your chest up into the calming sunshine,
let go,
and rest.

Let me wreck you,
bind you across the world
in hunger wrest
control away for you.

Scalpel through
the ample blue
ravages a belly
never true.

When right is lost
a cashmere sentence
is **** in mouth
all that's left to us?

Just a drop
on your tongue.

An act of
charity.

Show me submission
I will show you something
to gag on,
*****.

Show me submission
I will show you something
to swallow,
*****.

Show me submission
I will show you something
to *** on,
****.

Give me submission.
Give me submission.
Give me submission.

I will give you a place
where bruises feel like caresses
where danger feels like safety
where fear feels like release
where lust feels like love
where disgrace feels like an embrace
where every name and threat of
******
is stretched out
the same as your
long legs
*** cheeks
open mouth
dripping hive
aching heart.

I am wrapping my open mouth around your flesh
teeth are brittle
but skin gives quicker.

How wide could you spread?

Spread you out like a butterfly,
mascara running down across my fingers
you desperately grasp for air through.

Your words
cannot escape through my palm,
but by the time I remove it,
you will no longer be capable
of forming them.

You won't even remember your own ******* name
by the time I'm done with you.

Just like a dream that seems a lifetime,
is often only a few seconds in real-time,
you passed before my mind and heart
making eight years seem like an instant.

Now I am
waking
wondering
if you were real.

Now I am
trying to get up from
the bed that we made
the bed that you sleep on now
rub your sleep out of my eyes
see again
the things that are real.

You were railroad track marks
the spots you placed
up and down like pinhole cigarette stains
all across my breaking heart.

You were an escape artist act
up in the sky
like memories of sharp objects
drawn
across our skin.

They say people cut themselves
to feel some control,
but they are wrong.
We opened skin
to make sure
we were still human.

There are names for girls like you:
pretty, pure, and more...

But I know ones that are liked the best,
you ***** ******* *****.

I was thinking about
your phantom body pressed warmly cool against me,

and I thought of...

tasting your harmony breath,
tracing fingertips across your vapour soft belly skin,
tickling rings around the small of your horizon bending small-of-back, grasping your silk as *** ***,
swallowing your sweet sticky blooming sugar flower.

and then...

*******
              grabbing
                              choking
                                            spanking
                                                             scratching
                                                                            moaning
                                                             slapping
                                                   biting
                                   pinching
                screaming
*******

a cleansing storm

                       all
   over
             you.

I don't write for you.
I don't write for even myself.
I write for simply no reason
and so very much less.

I'm sending out signals,
trench warfare's got me down.
Digging through this foxhole,
looking for believers.

There isn't much left for me now,
as the yellowed gas rolls in,
except to look at my flare, high and bright,
(your angel-tongue hair, blowing in the wind)
and hope that you will see it.

Squeeze the bone until the chalk runs dry
escaping into your body
unwound like chalk
on a whiteboard.

Lust should only allow so much;
but you find places, cracks in this
brittle sidewalk, where
you grow through
green,
like grass.

You haunting ******* ignition switch,
the nail's-head trigger was hung over like
a pendulum Poe would be proud of.
I'd have stopped elevators with my blood and bone,
held it back, pushed it back,
taken my life out in a splash of cement chalk-lines,
to save you.

I still dream of you.

The good dreams hurt
much more than
the bad ones did,
when you still lived.

I used to
burn for you,
now I
burn away.

I'm swallowing pieces of paper,
dissolving the fragments of
your holy ghost on the
moist surface of my tongue,
the one that still means
all the lies it told.

So I am shaving my eyebrows off,
over this white porcelain sink
(it was never as pure as you),
sanding my fingers down to nubs,
and licking razors until
the tongue is gone,
and only the truth of silence remains.

I would dig deep:

past the

sun-dress
knee-highs
*******

to the

flesh
scars
secrets

bring back the

joy
confidence
excitement

protect them with my

heart
words and
deeds.

...my puppet on a string
mistaken feelings
a mixed drink of
clutched-breathed *******
and red-road nail marks?

Your hand,
(fingers spread)
palm pushed knuckle-white to the wall, shakes.

I am behind you...

My free hand:

pulls your hair like a leash...
breaking against your ***...
held firmly over your wet, open mouth...
wrapping around to *******,
polishing your pearl,
collar of fingers...

Drinking down your melted chalk,
yet always choke it down.
Which of your nicotine stained lies,
inside this belly's grown?

Backslide, the tongue, tracing the stitches on the
Toltec pyramid I've erected to you.
I've begged permission,
let me walk into it's depths,
desecrate it,
splatter this *****
across the inner walls in hieroglyphics
that spell out the simple joy of our shared muscular spasms.

The hair on your
arms,
back of neck,
belly,
is standing *****.

I can feel it.

Let the darkness,
like oil, seep
from the soft fallow soil
of your past
and into
my open mouth
and past
my pearl-white teeth,  
and into
my stomach.

Let the darkness,
like never seen secrets,
flow up
and through
my weeping heart,
and into
my filter brain,
and out of
my eyes as brilliant light
dispelling your shadows.

My heart cost less than I expected.
You spent every cent of it.
You borrowed against its little value,
ruined my ability
to ever lend it again.

I have never meant a thing
(laying in my blood...seeping)
like the title I've given you.

My bones reach you too late.
Would
excuses heard as lies
lead our ghosts into
their graves?

My skin soaks you too soon.
Would
heart-break lived as death
give my life a way
into my tomb?

My loyalty ***** your face.
Could
prayers answered in vain
let my life ever
escape itself?

These sleepy little scars reaching from the back,
where numbness holds a noose, can your *** free this hangman?
I could leave palm prints on your skin,
like  ancient art proto-men left on a wall,
with just as much animal rage,
and just as much desire to create a lasting impression
on the world.

I wrote your name
onto my skin
with the permanent marker
of a razor.

And when you left...

I washed it away
from my body
with the cleansing power
of a blowtorch.

Put me in your pocket,
keep me safe
like the paper fragment
I wrote this on
and never gave to you.

**** the flies
out from my eyes.
As it is,
all I ever see
with them dies.

There's nothing left
of all that could've been
except my empty shudder
inside this chest,
begging to rot
from the outside in
where lust equals death
where death equals trust
where nothing,
(nothing at all)
keeps me alive
for the nothing that's left.

The other day I dove into water...
I swear I heard
your voice
like an echo
stirring in my mind
as I was drowning,

As my heart spent its last breath,
it said your name.

What happened,
to all the missed moments we had put in a box,
tossed away.

Dewey Decimaled
out like library index cards,
I always thought we'd be able find them again.

I never thought that before we'd go searching,
that building would be burned down by you.

"If you love something, let it go.
If it doesn't return, it was never yours,"
they said.

Well it WAS mine.
There are no two ways about it.

What they don't tell you,
is that some things don't return,
not because they weren't yours,
but because they die
without you to hold it.

There were always words I could have said.
I could've danced right off your edge, World.
Instead,
I stared into the Star's direction (hypnotized) for nearly a decade,
and stumbled, blind, off your edge, World.

This aircraft is in flames.
The fuselage, broken.
My fingernails, bent.
My knuckles, white.
My parachute, missing.
My life,
flashing before my blind eyes.

Sunspots and stutters singled out in the paradox of oil,
dripping like *** I do not want.
Curse my name, break me apart
leave me (hear).
*******.

Help me crawl to you,
who are you?
*******.

Drape me in your comfort, fingers in my hair,
my baby screams, hold your hand on my head,
cradle me in your peace,
death.

Wipe the tears from these sun-burnt cheeks.
This ******* temple shattered,
crushed me beneath it,
crippled my ability to breathe.
Pray for me.
*******.

These brittle teeth are covered in germs.
Let me inside you where I turn my sins over to you.
Who are you?
*******.

I would skin my bones,
cover them in tar,
bathe in alcohol,
light me aflame.
Love me. Hate me.
I do.
*******.

There are gentle curses,
simple words that would break you
into those pieces you are,
scattered on the floor,
swept gently into my dustpan of marble,
reassembled from the
broken little statue you are
not so little, are you?

I'd reassemble your last horizons,
raining bleak shores of a suicide walk off of Beachey Head.

Smash,
dissolve into the waters,
and turn the ocean waters
purple.

I bet your strings could be pulled,
Marion...
ette.

Raspy in motion,
the scars you bear could, would,
will show me the path inside you.
Tongue traces,
**** this brittle bone beware the accent marks on my vowels;
they always catch the lips.

If there is a star, and if it has a name,
I would never reveal it.

My Star had a name,
she blew across and away from my world
left everything burned like
Mercury's surface,
too close to what gives life,
to ever live again.

A mascara face print, where those tracks of teared-makeup
once ran across your face,
now dormant upon the bathroom stall wall like the print of a mushroom,
forever etched into that Formica board separating defecators from one another
all day long;
save the absent omnipresent five-minute stands that occur as ours did –
**** ******* against a fragile toilet partition as your recurring image
the face mashed against a solid substance,
standing behind you and convincing you of the ***** ***** that you are;

you already know that...but it feels so good to be persuaded this way.

Within
without
within
nothing like a truck load of pain to ease your reservations.

Oh,
my smashing liquid crystal,
dilating pupils and drawing back the sheer curtains
to let the light in.

Oh,
my terror in the forest,
the light screams away in silence, echoing off the walls
of bark I shake in.

Oh,
my last breath,
bleeding in the tub, blood pours, black ink in water poured
from a shattering glass.

**** me *******,
shallow and cross,
angry and peaceful...
just take me away from the marks she has left here

...just ******* drive.

I deleted your photos
from my ******* facebook
cover album today.

I went to change it and your face,
beautiful,
took me by surprise.

You left is such a hurry,
in such a dark plastic wrap gesture
that I've already started to
forget what you look like.

If only I could cleanse you,
sponge your body away and out into clarity,
find some emptiness to replace you with
the exit you took took the taken moments
further than I'd have liked them to go.

You bled,
I bleed,
help me staunch the bleeding,

and I don't know how to deal with your loneliness.
It's the one thing
you have left behind
with me.

I miss you,
I hope for you
someday to return embraced in my
arms of chicken wire,
brittle in this cool breeze blowing across
cracked earth that surrounds me, grey,
the only precipitant;
drops of suspiration from my eyes.

My world skips to slow motion
as I observe with the eyes
of a million unwoken promises,

and it hits the ground,

each drop splattering like a cloud devoured in a
pool of flies.
My body yearns, it aches for you
like a honey suckle longs to be
plucked,
torn in half
licked clean
by the tongue,
moist with desire,
that makes it home in the preoccupied body that will soon discard it,
barely noticed by the taste buds; it moves on to consume another.

Hope leaves me
as I realize
I miss you, but I don’t know who you are…

I have:
coconut lips
wrist bindings
finger marks
hand prints
tongue on skin
palm on ***
nails on throat
stubble on neck nape
gentle caress
tender heart
shivering words
rough chin on inside of thighs,
soft,
wet.

Do you have:
lip to gently bite
hips to trace with feathers
collar-bone handles
eyes to drown in
body to wrap around
legs to intertwine
voice to whisper
scars to lick
mouth to breathe into
and hair to hold like a leash, until
it becomes release,
collapse,
lost breath,
speechless,
rocked to sleep?