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.

Orchid pod spreads
gossamer mouth opens
subtle click of saliva,
trace across the paper-thin petal,
tickle across the veins where blood rushes new life,
smooth like wet latex, tongue massages a route around the world,
face buried in field of color
osmopheric scent of cinnamon
apples
nickel
overcomes,
come over me
pour the dew across my lips
drown me in the waves
that make your muscles cry my name,
nine point nine and the world cracks open,
like the ghostly leftover milk bath
of a ******'s first cleansing after loss of maidenhead,
it spills over us.

Vanilla frozen cream
over slices of pink-orange inner flesh,
steam as something cold
is lain upon something hot.

The fluffy-whiteness spreads
the soft-firm peachiness apart, leaks
into the space between, gathers
in a small puddle of thick milkiness,
almost pearlescent.

Rolling-back eyes,
scent of precious fruit,
burning cold bowl
in hand, contents slide down the throat
all at once, swallow.

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.

"What are you doing here? You're not even old enough to know how bad life gets."

"Obviously, Doctor, you've never been a thirteen year-old girl." ~ The ****** Suicides*

The smell of teenage lipstick and sunbeams
Why are they different from us?
(it's so great they are different from us)
These memories of our youth,
transient,
will mean more than the permanent ones of adulthood.

The flash sparkle of amber in her eyes
high and low pressure air combined
my name on your *******
breaking smoke circles
the sound of vinyl stabbed
just listen to them,
the taste of peach schnapps.

"You don't have to talk to me."
terrible sources of information
"We weren't talking if you know what I mean..."
And off they go to join the thirty-thousand plus

Little acorns, fallen by the tree
anchored into soil.
You had just begun to grow,
when mother wilted.

The comforting shade of her branches, gone.

The support of her vital roots, gone.

Yet you remained.

Little sapling, snatched at by a predator, tooth and claw. You held tight to the soil, setting shallow roots,
clinging to the earth,
rich with remnant memories,
ghosts.
You set your branches up, grew quickly, reached out with earnest energy,
to shade the acorn below you.

Gnashing teeth, fangs of a predator. Violence, a flash of red lust into your branches, pulling, ripping.

Yet, for your acorn, adopted, your remained.

Through the jealous filter of grief, you remained.

Through the threat to your own body, you remained.

And even though Mother is gone,
you have taken her place.
Your roots winding deep into fertile soil, finding your way through paths
she first dug,
you find your strength
as protector,
anchor,
life-giver,
to the little acorn beneath you.

The comforting shade of your branches, remain for her.

The support of your vital roots, remain for her.

You just keep on carving back my smiles,
elastic vowels you blanket me in,
drowning me, again, with smoke from your belly.
Gargle all the chunky bits
that remain in this blended relationship.
Strain them out through the cheesecloth
which splits apart,
like the split between your legs

The split of an insect’s back when it
bends, arches, reaches too far.
And I’m sick of that bird-****-yellow
oozing out from that crack there;
held in your scarecrow arms.

I don’t want to be your headache
in this migraine *******.

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 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 shake like a drooling fool,
exhale a snore
am spent as my drizzle creeps towards her ******.
The loose flesh of me weighed down upon her,

but she wasn't there

She was running through fields of fresh emerald spears,
chases the wild horses of Patagonia
never catches them as she is overrun
carried away by the stallions from behind,
blooms a water lily opens and closes over and over,
Cereus opens with the touch of the Moon over and over,
feel the dust hear the waves of trampling hooves

as her face, a tense string,
shatters into an open mouthed smile and shout of,

"I am life, and you are the most blessed of creatures, here.
I am the glamor of everything.
I am Mother Earth in this moment,
screaming, fitting, wailing, quaking, coming.
Your diminishment has made this possible.
Bathe in the spinning cradle of life,
and stay still before you retreat from it."

A princess and a puppy,
sit at Daddy's feet.
Cuddling and snuggling,
He gives His love to each.

I am writing a new story,
but don't look here for the narrative,
because
I am not writing it with these words you think you are reading,
or the patience that I have found.
I am penning this new manuscript,
and all the illuminating circumstances that make those reading
wish they were the characters in the joy-tear-jerking plot,
the parts everyone passes eyes over in order
to make their own lives richer...
I am scribing my way through to the end
not with words, letters, jots, tittles,
but with
actions.

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.

When I come:

spilling nova
fractal collage
globe thistle - electric blue
the end of me grinds into your fleshy, pierced pearl
a civilization pours out in tremors of hand-pumped Dial soap
ghostly pink Peonies brush my skin
rupturing continental shelf
swept aside moraine

There's a threaded zipper on your pants
made of little stitches of red
which grasp the zipper's brass teeth,
which match the enamel tools
which grow from my pink gums
which pull at that handle.

As it slides down, the teeth of brass
pull apart
(skin from a peach).

Little coquette,
I can see the smirk of giddy shame
as the denim drops
and you are bare.

Corpse dangles from tree by snapped-twig neck,
innards spilled out from stomach like rotten raspberries,
nothing but stick-figure hang man.

Simon Iscariot's tears fall beside blood and water
that pours from your abdomen,
similar to the emulsion
from the spear-wound in Jesus. Christ
gave you the highest honor:

that of making all
ancient parchment
statements true.

They were then hidden away for centuries in dry clay pots
in musty caves of sheep-herders.

Father lowers you down
the greatest of care
to the arms of
Pieta' Mother.

I haven't cried in three days. The napkin-white petals,
an Alyssum White blanket of snow,
piebalded by Slipper Orchids,
flows beneath my skin
as if it were the thinnest layer of water
under oil.

The feeling is the consistency of pungent Valerian,
the active ingredient the smell
of well-matured cheese,
cuts the tops off  mountains
as it fills the bottoms of canyons
with asphalt.

It's given a brain back to this anencephaly.
Where there were stitched lips,
now only paper-heart kisses.

We aren't on speaking terms
but
we **** nightly
that way
we don't have to see one another.

All day long we are:

coarse hair fly legs under each other's skin,
black drops of ink in a jade bowl of milk,
genocidal gestures.

There is a part of me that loves you
(despite all the harm we've conceived)
it slides in and out of you as I write this.

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.

Your torso, stretched and squeezed by God's finger
and thumb, ever so gently
just between your hips and ribs.
Those long bow-shaped bones stretch against your near melanin-free skin.
Is that pink-tinge the blood vessels, just beneath,
or the marks of my touch?

I am heady;
you are ice on my tongue,
which slowly melts into warm
liquid as I mouth-
breathe.

You make me feel so *****-clean,
a pale patriarch that ***** his Sister.
I am so drunk
on your potency,
my memories flood in as absinthe, my inebriated
body replays that first night I tore you open.

Stretch your arms above your pretty poutish head,
I pull myself out from your bald lips -
coat you in white feathers.

I am watching black and white films of ****** surgery nightmares,
the heads concealed behind bandages, contents unknown.

You are toothpaste: once I squeeze you out it is impossible to
put you back, as you occupy my life with your carnival apathy

Skin the color of fleshy burnt sienna
as if someone took the areola's border,
sewed it on the armpits

can't close eyes tight enough to cleanse the memory of
your face from my thoughts
regurgitating in endless loops of hula hoop champions.

I can't stop the dream –
(woman who looks eighteen, lips colored same as the pastel cheeks)
watching hot pink
bob bobbing.

Stupid ****:
if I'm raising armies to invade you with,
I clearly want you still.

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.

Pull your teeth out,
threading your lips together with twine.

Reach into your bellybutton with a finger,
hook-shaped,
and remove your intestines,
like a serpent.

Run a hook into your nose,
removing your brain
as if mummifying you.

Carve a smile with a razor,
under each breast,
******* out the fat
and replacing it with silicone.

Pull your nails off,
leaving ****** beds,
krazy-gluing plastic
over the tips of the fingers.

Fingers into ****,
pulling out the ******.

Spoon the eyeballs out,
sew the sockets shut.

My doll, broken and battered,
now fixed in perfection.
A soft suicide relapse into plasticine porcelain -
you tremble when we ****.

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

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?

And I remember fantasizing about your
Death
My hands wringing out your delicate
Throat
My weeping member pumping you full of
***

How easy my thoughts are lost
in you and simpler still my body pulled
into you held down by the weight
of the earth I’ve filled my pockets
with. I push my way into this welcoming
water’s body. I do not want to go,
but the ocean’s thundering applause
and its frigid love under my toes
sweeps me off my feet
as waking gulls
mourn the triumph of the sea.

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.

Can you feel it coming?

A blast of stars across your field of vision,
wrapped in a vow of loyalty,
presented in the spaces between our breath,
where everything fades away,
every black spot rattling around in your brain,
blasted away in a fit of
violence,
lust,
care,
possession,
sweetness, and
love.

This love burns and drips

an unclean **** knot
******* and *******
at tailgate parties in basements
where everybody is satisfied
except for one...

The sky is painted static:
I can't find the channel.

A frail cherub descends
gossamer threads of maize splay out about its head
brings the sky back with it
and in hues of pink and life,
restores me.

More than lust,
more than ***,
more than *******,
is the peace they bring.

More than pillows,
more than clouds,
more than rest,
is the calm they bring.

Warmth against the ear and cheek, Mother's breath
runs through the hairs on the back of his neck
as Lover's fingers trace through his hair.

Soft, such skin.

The man becomes an infant at the touch
on ear of delicate areola,
an inverted dimple,
which he turns to with the lips and tongue,
moist.

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.

His ******* angel wings can no longer lift him high enough. His silhouette
stands against the Morning Glory sky. He has not worn cologne
until this day. Now, the perfume of kerosene coats him. His
matchstick countdown has just hit zero,
ignition.

In flames, he launches off the edge of that crisp concrete line. He falls
ten stories, what was once a man, now an effigy not of stone
or wood, but flame which, wind-washed,
splays out as Ringed Plover wings,
ash feathers blown back.

With a crash of bone and pavement, his Chinese Lantern skin the color
of burnt-sienna, the blaze snuffs out. Through yellow plastic paper,
the creamy skinned women rush to his side. Mother,
Sister, Wife, cradle him, the fingers catch skin
which sloughs off in
flakes of
carbon.

Those words are now meaningless
compared to what you mean to me.
Where I thought that there was no way to feel deeper,
you prove me wrong.

I am ice
and you were the cool breeze
that keeps me from melting and evaporating away.

No four letter-word could ever measure against you.

I was eating cigarettes for breakfast;
now I subsist only on the health of you.

I was dreaming of the day
I was born,
strangling on an umbilical noose;
you have slid your pink life-giving cord into my navel.

I was writing my suicide note,
but you came and lit it aflame,
blew away the embers,
wrote a story with a happy ending.

I dangled, atrophied, off of an edge,
my chalk-outline superimposed over the gaping black.
Your hair, strands of raven steel,
snaked their way through my fingers,
held me long enough for you
to pull me back.

You held my hand,
guided the crayon it held.
Where I saw only a blank
page, you showed
where the lines were and created
a piece of art beyond
anything the world has ever seen.

You are my life-support system,

Holly,

and without you,
I wouldn't be writing this.

I'm in the passenger seat
next to you
and you don't say a ******* word
and I don't say a ******* word
and we watch the world speed by
eyes ahead
in silence.

I am content.

There's a caterpillar in my right ear canal.
It's almost neon-green,
with poison-orange bulbs,
the color of grafted cactus.  

It's squeezed its way quite far in, stuffed
itself in as if it were an expanding foam earplug,
the spines stuck in my inner pink skin.

I lean my head to the right, knock
the left side with the flat of my palm.
Eggs, the same as desiccant beads,
the color of earwax, pitter-patter out and onto my table
as if they were plastic raindrops on a trampoline.

There will come a day when it cocoons itself, and that moth
flies free, but until that day, I will continue
to turn it towards you
every time you speak.

"Blood keeps drinking away, certain of its destination. Driving through New Orleans at night. Gotta find a destination...just one fix." ~ Ministry

Sick
I gargle your blood one last time
I hear you tell stories of authors
you love so much
while inside my head digs tunnels
to China

At first unwrapping,
(a child with no eyelids)
the chunk of tar
always seems fist-sized - until it is gone

High
You are suddenly there,
a cool summer morning anxious to be far too hot,
wind blows through you as if it were
balloons
in rainbow hues.

Reloaded conception, sanity.

Sick*
Stupid -
doing your part by recycling cans,
wasting water cleaning each one out,
equation a zero-sum,
positive multiplied by a negative.

Aokigahara, a Sea of Trees,
redolence of a carrion flower attracts flies.
They land, bring up dissolution and
spread your legs
where they deposit the eggs.

Beachy Head, a white plume of efflorescent death.

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.

Research has shown
that lithium
is the only drug
that guarantees a decrease
in suicide.

So slow the trajectory in which you came to me,
not simply difficult to see,
but difficult to identify:

felt the same as walking through a door and looking back to see a man approaching,
try to judge if he is close enough to hold it, not hold it, or give it the push
just enough for him to take advantage.

Awkward as a traffic light,
yellow,
too close to stop,
too far to go through.

Some people in my life are felt marker streaks,
they start so saturated
but fade to nothing as they advance.

You are the opposite:
slowly building from nothing,
continuing to get brighter,
containing more
color,
until the end.

I'm having fists of laughter, daisy-cutter dreams in formaldehyde,
creating the worlds most loved sport by kicking the heads of Danes.

Mutually assured corruption I can feel
creeping down the inside of my nostril,
across my tiny hairs,
but I am still, let it come;
it runs out and onto my lips. I **** its mercurial
clearness down.

I was born without fingernails or teeth,
forever stuck gumming the soft pink nail beds.

I keep everyone out of my life;
it is the only way to justify never seeing you.
Desiccant children pour from their mothers' laps
as if they were clear beads from that little paper shoe box packet.

You are an apricot full of sand;
I am a Mongol stealing maidenheads.

A peach is a rose -
deep inside
drips cyanide.

She approaches, the **** skin creamy,
Except above the eyes, she is hairless,
exactly the same as polished marble.

Her back and haunches
curve like an inverted spoon of wax,
*** an upside-down heart pining
away for you to invade.

Nubile nymph, teardrop-shaped *******
move with each footfall the same as a slightly disturbed water surface.

The arms, two extended columns of stone, support
in their upturned palms, the alabaster plate of offerings.

Peach,
fuzz-covered, not like her crotch.

Apple,
the shape of her *** waiting for your worm.

Plum,
smooth like her skin and soon slippery with your saliva.

Orange,
like her ***** waiting to be peeled back so the tongue can enter.

Rambutan,
red as lust, yearns for your peeling to expose the coconut-hued innards.

Ripe Akebia,
cracks open, now full of glistening white seed.

She sits across from you at the group-work table in all her flesh
a coat of giant cold chicken skin
she can't figure how to take off.

A cow chewing cud
would be less offensive than the way she grinds
that gum with mouth, a hole slapping
against itself in fleshy clicks.

She is heavy, whipping cream-
colored thighs each time she slaps a hand down in laughter.

The chest is pouring out in all of it's hypnotic paleness;
the dark colored shirt is giving its all, but failing against the strain.

Your adrenaline courses in nausea
as she moves her legs apart,
veins radiation-blue,
mashed potato inner thighs,
and suddenly
you've peaked behind the curtain
the poison fish you see
makes you *****.

I can bore you with talk
of women and children,
but it is simple enough to say
human beings.

Human beings
run in gathering storms
of concrete dust;
run from misting
of meat.

Explosions are sudden fatal therapy
for human beings
suffering dissonance,
and there's nothing quite
the same as losing words.

All of these
human beings,
cut-off
quick
in Tourette syndrome
(****!)
Pu.nc-tu-a.tion.

Caught in the concrete cloud
darker than Krubera Cave,
lost out on a betrayed Silk Road,
as bloated blue bodies
wash up on Indonesian shores.

This city of centuries
built by human beings,
has now become
almost-five thousand corpses
who dangle their toes
out of shrapnel windows.

Pieces of me sweat
away in an instant of swaying black burqas,
rocking on knees at a cemetery.

I’m standing in Beirut -
nineteen-eighty two.
I watch towers fall.
There has to be
a way to make the world relate,
even if it takes
nineteen years.

Crawls like a ******* with insect legs,
wet cool tongue tickles like a slug
up the inner thighs to the inside of the crotch.

I'm indebted to the doctor who saved me
from nature's attempt to abort me with an umbilical cord -
I owe him a bullet in the brain.

My mother's love
was only there
in her tries to cover the guilt
for strangling me in the womb.

Hey, Starchild…

Can you feel me lean  into you?

The weight of the moon -
immeasurable tons,
yet somehow making you lighter?

(An astronaut on the surface
gaining more height than you expect
with each leap-step.)

In the end, it may in reality be that
the Sun
is illuminated
by the moon.

My Brittle Star arms detach in the acidic water of you.

I stir, and try to escape the gaping tremor or your teeth
uncovered face
free of meat.

Roaches crawl inside your skull,
the bone powdered with the years,
all that remains:
Toskavat.

You are an Incan Mummy, the sack pulled off,
as rosy-cheeked, young boys stare through misty bus windows
still spackled with flecks of mud from your wet road.
They smile -
their microbes shared unintentionally,
a condomless foam party.

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,
******.

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.

There were little ways, once, when things could sparkle and spread the light
just like I spread your legs
then.

Away I could turn,
and feel your eyes on me,
the breath for breathing in always fresh and free between us,
the staleness now punctuating every sentence, drooling from my lips
and off away somewhere…

nowhere.

The infant
me lying next to the mother
of you in the creeping sun

running away over the edge of the world
like Magellan.

I could chase it,
I would,
I swear I will,
if you would ask it,
and I would tumble over that dark cusp
and off into a six-year terror of death and disease,
just to return,
spinning the Earth under my feet,
pushing it with my hands like paddles,
kicking it back with toes,
sweating bleeding shaking
and collapsing
back into
you.