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?

Where are you,
for me to put my arm around from behind,
snake up between your ******* from behind,
my hand lightly holding your throat.
My face covered in your black hair,
scented of you,
my little spoon.

You - taller than me,
but I made you small
you fit so perfectly,
back to my naked chest,
just like I fit so perfectly
into you,
my little spoon.

If I had known all of those moments
seen them coming so slowly
feathers raining from the sky
drop down onto me
embryos, suddenly cut from the umbilical cords,
they fall,
shatter brittle bones on the ground,
and you run back to the safety
of your maiden name.

Go away morning
with your sleepy eyes and sad-dream lies
Disappear my morning Star
and melt into the shadows.

Leave me here, alone in bed
longing for your touch.
But dreams are lies that will not hide
how my heart is crushed.

The sky rains feathers onto your wrists tied down,
your blind eyes nervous,
excitedly worried in the best way.

I am the gentlest man you could know.

I am the roughest man you could know.

In those little contrasts,
wax paper and lace,
milk and alcohol,
cigarettes and oxygen tanks exploding like your body,
when I devour you.

Your wry smile,
smirk the moisture away
on the back of you hand,
drawn across your lips.

Bring me to my knees,
that I may look you eye-to-eye.

I can take you from a minor key,
to a major key.
A bow drawn across your
strings of hair.
The fingers delicately firm, push against me,
that I may push into you.

I wear you like a weapon,
I bring death to every fear inside my gut.

I am a vase,
an Egyptian glass jug that will take every drop I can - careful
for I may overflow,
and we may drown,
smiling shaking *******
squirming stained-glass synchronicity.

I want to hold my breath
like I thought I'd hold you - forever

If I poured myself out onto you
like milk from a glass jug
would the little droplets
sour and stain your love?

All across your body,
lines written in rainbow thread.

A heart is only
so much weight, wait...why?

Would they dust your body
for the remnants?

What they have found,
is it hesitant?

Engorged like a hibiscus pistil,
covered in pollen
dripping with dew.

This is no request, but an order:
Extend your tongue
til it pulls with a bit of pain from behind your lower teeth,
open up,
and
prepare
to
swallow.

There are bits of glass
strewn about
this empty
heart of mine.

Milk white,
pure as unbroken *****,
innocence lain bare.

My touch,
aches, despoils. Alarms,
so soft; a feather’s caress.

Creamy smooth,
lotion filled *****, disarming
with a frown, down-turned; tears.

Teases me, terrifies me in its shroud. Free me, set me loose
from this cage, this frigid incarceration, lay me bare. My *****,
split and opened; exposed. Soft, pink tongue, coated crimson,
makes love to my wounds. My kitten, sweet, laps the saucer.

Abstracted from the fragments, broken in the wind of
your Madonna, holy, sincere. Shadow creases the
wrinkled skin, veins; varicose. Age comes ungracefully,
my beauty, wrapped in plastic.

dark musty I am attracted, opposite poles,
a moth to the absence of light,
my mushroom blooms
the deepest shade of azure
awakening here, molding at the spore,
the leafs and paper and rat droppings
echo down the causeway,
the red rusted gutter escape flows into
nothingness behind me, I hate you; so obese,
rotund like a dimorphism of rubenesquery and retardation,
bent beyond shape,
borrowed against ****,
I’ll collect the interest someday, maybe today,
or perhaps we’ll continue on smiling as we have
knowing that I pulled the last vestiges of your humanity,
shorn and weeping,
from your carcass years ago.

You are mine.

My top and bottom incisors do not meet
the wall of your big toe between them,
my enamel spades crushing against your nail bed so gently,
perforating your toes’ soft bottoms so exquisitely.

My tongue slowly dances with your toes,
the ridges above and the arch below the foot,
you flinch at the tickle.

My mouth dancing like an anemic acrobat,
it finds his way along the high-wire of your fishnet guarded legs,
their pale contrast to the red cloth exciting.

Suddenly, you shudder as the muscle in my mouth finds
your flesh exposed above the stocking line,
I am a conquistador and I have discovered a new land – I will subjugate it,
taking it’s precious jewels and spices,
consuming them and getting fat with the richness that is this New World before me.

I devour you so slowly – is my mouth even moving?
It is leaving a trail,
slightly damp like a dehydrated slug,
a leech ******* each piece
until the bleached skin becomes en-crimsoned by the bruises
my biting and ******* have made.
Will you try to hide them?
I move on to places where this disguising will not be a concern, and you begin to spasm.

I’ve hung myself on these gallows,
and so having to die because of it,
I will relish it;
an abandonment atrocity of aestheticism.

My star went supernova
and burned away all the love from the face of the Earth.

Just like in the movies,
I'm running to her,
just like I had dreamed.

She opens herself once again,
like the light playing through the blinds
yellow fingertips creating shadows,
I enter you.

This reunion...
happily ever after all the things
we have been through,
and I am here again in your body,
the only place I ever felt I honestly
belonged...

But this isn't the movies.
There is no reunion.
There is only a pale black noose
and my life is
on the
edge.

Just a tiny spot that grew
into the crevices of our love,
a mushroom-blue fungus
spreading mycelium tendrils through

It's only been a week
trust me, I know

I've been counting the suffering seconds
while you are away, having your life there with
no responsibilities
no work
no job
no cares
(for me, even?)
no schedules

I count these seconds still as you tell me how tired you are
(doing nothing)
how there's little time to talk
in my spare time from the job I work at seventy-hour weeks,
(the one you said I needed to save our marriage)
and how the frustrations of a bad connection
mean more to you
than I do,
anymore.

So I hope you sleep well,
I hope the fact that you can show no care for
a person who cares for you more than themselves,
doesn't keep you up.

I hope your beautiful head is sleeping soundly
as I am sleepless,
waiting for your answer.

I am waking up in tears every morning
our songs echoing through my head
covered in sweat,
shirt soaked through,
hair on end like I've been swimming in the bath of
warm water and
memories
we drew over nearly a decade.

I'm spinning out of control and
I don't know if I can remember how to be a good husband anymore.

But mostly, I just miss you
like the desert misses the rain,
and just like that metaphor,
I am becoming a ******* cliche.

I'm not asking for much...just a
sliver of something to
hold onto.

I only want someone to love me
when we are old,
for the things they loved me for,
when we were young.

I cycle,
as little as possible
much more than I'd like
thinking of you
feeling you
wrecking myself
wishing this life would end
wishing this feeling would never end
alarming myself
at how fast
I cycle.

I will show you
just how soft
and close
it can
feel
when
it is

engorged in near-violence
shudder your teeth
as your whole body
grinds on its own shaking muscles

inner thighs
*******
neck

and suddenly
you aren't sure anymore
that more love is made
making love
or being
******
and
owned.

I want a black-haired girl,
I want my fingers to be
coiled about by ebony,
pulled so hard it cuts the fingers
like fish line she is caught on,
(the other hand, hooking her mouth
assures she will be helpless)
as my tool opens her insides
spills every drop of oil within her
making my work
faster...

but even more
than my weight pushing her down
into a smashed doe pose,
I simply want
a
friend.

You are out of sight,

from within this
eroding sandstone,
too-high-to-climb-walls,
box canyon you have left me in,

and I am out of my mind.

It's funny how you notice things
at times
that didn't take a space in your
consciousness
until events
dry brown and husk-yellow leaves
float into your life,
and suddenly,
everything is painted in
their colours:
every song on the radio
every empty place you see around town
every good time you try to have
all the little words...

They all fall into place,
and leak their brittle discord into
the cracks of your life.

It must be nice
to be surrounded by green
to be in a safe place
to seek the therapy you need
to break away
to wrap yourself in yourself until yourself emerges again.

It must be nice
to not be left behind.

Search me,
stretch me out over the table of our history together,
with your tongue trace my skin like it's a map,
and find your way back home to us.

I would spread my life wide open
if only you'd come
fill this bed,
my empty head,
and too- full heart,
force me back to
sleeping lengthwise.

It's so much easier
letting go,

Tossing away the life we both wore
like a sleeping bad for two,
and finding your own,
made for one.

It's so much easier
than laying alone
with too much room left over,
your only new companion
the anxious embrace
of insomnia.

If you'd only let me,
I would give you back every moment
of happiness you feel we lost together,
and all the lost potential,
tossed away by the harm
of our addictions.

I would.

Would you give me back
the one and only thing
I would ever say you took from me,
if you could?

All I want is your attention,
Your fingers in my hair,
Your soft voice in my ear,
Your cradle made of arm bone and flesh
to rest
my head in,
Your chest
to rest
my ear on
as your heartbeat murmurs its lullabies
to me.

After everything, how could you walk away?
After everything, how could you let me drift away?
After everything, how could you siphon the years and pack them,
like boxes, in just those short days?
After everything, how could you wrap up our memories like twine slowly frays?
After everything, how could you break every promise to which I pray?

After everything,
how am I feeling sexlessly ******
disarmed destroyed denigrated
left on the roadside dying
to just be with you after everything?



Everything...


...


...




There's so much to be had here.
Come back to me here.
Don't leave us here.
I only want to love you.

Spun out of control,
consummated consumption wrought us together,
but now you need space

but there's no air for me to
breathe in space, where I am
left.
The well of your gravity keeps me close,
insides vacuuming out as I stare
helpless
at your blue white corona holding the one thing that would save me,

(drowning in an inch of water,
oxygen so near but impossibly far...)

if only it would pull me
back in again.

The stars comfort you,
but there are none here visible,
as my eyes shed their blood vessels
to the nothing that coldly cradles me.

I'm dying out here,
baby,
and I don't want to get
lost
in
this
space.

My words,
so full of love and concern
for you

have never felt
so
empty.

I am not the one who will do that to you.
I am not the one who will twist the lines
around your body
until they form a noose around
your neck
until you
choke.

I am not like the others.

I hope you realize that
in
time.

I see your silhouettes standing like
empty ghosts

everywhere I look around this city,
on the static sidewalks,

and like the stars etched into your shoulder blades,
I paint inside your lines
with the colours
of my heart.

I've got so much for you,

(fingers that play twister with yours,

stencils carving your name just above your skin just
barely brushing baby hair around
your navel,

barely breathed words of love,

soft sandpaper stubble to drag out goose fleshed neck nape
as it reaches up to reach my chin,

slightly parted lips grazing yours and then a sudden
gasp of teeth into your skin,

waking wrapped around you in a moment I can make feel
more than a mere instant but like it would never end,

as the sun sneaks its way into the blinds
reflecting soft shadows off of your every angle,
and the power to
take
your
breath
away.)

if you'd only accept it...if you'd only accept it.

So much flesh,
crushed beneath
a metal press

and like my mercurial mind,
it flows from solid wax
to running oil

The smell of
the tropics,
and ***.

Crutching my way through the days,
until you come back this way.

Sleepless, harangued, hungry, tight.
Will I make it to the shore without your light?

Shudder the alarms,
I won't burden you with this weight
so fly
free
and come
back to
me.

The lens is out of focus,
for the first time,
the lens is out of focus.

This mixture of metol and phenidone is making
the edges show
clearer.

So hold me down,
run your fingers across me,
and I'll slide right into focus.

I was dreaming of things I didn't want to,
and woke towards your comfort

but it wasn't there

and that's what has hurt the most,
so far.

You burn them all away, keep me safe.
I wear you, I use you,
the only thing that is keeping me

together.

Like a woven basket falling

apart,

you thread me like a needle
when there is no capable shopkeeper.

You are a safe place to land what's inside my head,
you understand the circuitry inside this machine
because yours is the same.

I am writing words because speech is often too much. Writing to a black haired girl I have dreamt of, damage done. Aloe shatters in an explosion of feathers, lost out in between my tears. My weakness is something I call a strength, what broke was tempered steel beneath her gaze, wide-eyed in love. The Mother Mori bends her back, back at me again and I enter her, conquered. Do you even read me? I've started moving from your well of gravity and am writing a story of my life with myself as my own unreliable narrator. Would I slide into you? When it's never been a problem, the lack of your insides wrapped around me suddenly becomes one. Butterflies flutter around the butter that has begun oozing from the wound you have made in me, like a sweetly scented rot, a gorgeous gangrenous gap in my skin, attracting flies. When speech becomes too much, I write. You brought me to life by reading me. When you don't read, this dies.

Blankets never had it so good,
and I just need someone to hold.

Scarabs dance impositions across your navel,
flattening themselves out in honour of your belly,
as I am watching your pulse spell out cryptograms
just below your pink
hairless
skin.

I lap the insects up like a patient kitten, lingering too long
(just long enough)
as the tips of my fingers press down on your
pulsing
hieroglyphics.

I don't know which direction is up
appalled at my own circumstances,
retreating back into my self and floating.

When trapped between the asphalt and the stars above is it better
to spread your arms and legs, waiting for the stars to take you up

to Heaven

or push your fists into the asphalt, melting from the heat of the stars above
and steel yourself

for Hell?

You are not beautiful
because your hair is something love is made of.
You are not beautiful
because your eyes are brighter than ***** of hydrogen.
You are not beautiful
because you stand tall, stand strong (stronger than me).
You are not beautiful
because of the endless secret midnight reasons only I know.
You are not beautiful
because you survived assassination attempts.
You are not beautiful
because you bend, but have not broken.
You are not beautiful
because of the lust you inspire in every man that sees you.
You are not beautiful
because of the way our son shines in your light.

You are beautiful,
because you are brilliant...
because you give me life...
because you are creation's sigh...
because you are the taste upon my tongue...
because you are the whisper on my every word...
because you are the blood that caresses my every beat...

You are beautiful,
Holly,
because you are my Heroine.

I was counting the number
of your flaws for the first time,
trying to find an excuse,
trying to find some armor,
trying to find a modicum of control,

(letting go is always
easier
than being let go)

I was struck dumb by futility.

I was counting the number
of your flaws for the first time,
and for the first time learned,
that zero is a number.

I've got a ring
I don't wear it.

Even though it's on my finger,
you see,
it wears me.

I have this gold wrapped
around my finger -

For when you aren't near
For when I can't lay in your arms
For when I need to be held,
your ring holds me.

I said I took you for granted,
and I had.

It was how I've survived
being taken for granted.

I am sick of laying in the shallow grave
you have been forced into against your will.

I am still standing next to it,
my fingers spread,
beg you to take my hand,
pull you up
and into
my palms.

Don't
take
that
for
granted.

I've been looking up
to the stars every day

knowing

that though I can't see you
you are still here.