every time you touch me
the skin blanketing me screams,
  a babe newly out the womb.
only air - no sound escapes -
in breaths
breaths
panting breaths!

  just                fingertips
          grazing
     now
                they climb,
         venturing
    to
  unexplored     curves.

every time you touch me
you leave invisible singes glow;
  a masochistic craving for more.
wanton wanting, eager to please
in exchange for pleasure.

your flavour dribbles
spiralling pirouettes across our tongues.
  now, not now, and now.

! l i v e    i n    t h e   m o m e n t !

for you know this moment
will soon be mere memory,
  replayed, looping a single track.
the scene that plays behind your eyelids
      as the curtains fall before slumber.

enjoy and savour his touch;
every time you touch me
vines intertwine between my toes
     flames burn the nape of my neck.
curl, curl, curl, writhe,
a gurgle of a moan.

a rarity of intimacy,
the time of now comes not.
  it's back to the waiting room,
doodling in a notepad,
solving sudoku problems
in the back of my mind.
procrastinate the longing,
begging is desperation.

sickly, the wait invigorates,
a catalyst of passionfruit!

acting on a stage,
she builds with each step,
step,
    step,
        stepping,
the floorboards trail behind her feet.
they form from the soil,
the earth breathing beneath,
wooden planks sprouting between her toes.

she sings in a voice strained and trained,
her diaphragm strong and core
rumbling in single breaths.

her skin brushed with pigment,
cheeks tinted rouge and lips scrubbed till pain,
gold-dusted on her bones
rays reflecting and blinding from her beauty.

stomach she ***** in,
twenty-four
seven,
always prim and proper,
a perfect specimen of femininity,
her blood flows in a viscosity unique
only to the elite.

fingers down
but she lacks words to throw up,
she's silent,
an empty vessel,
her lips meant to be a two-way gate
but nothing flows either way.

her skin sunkissed turmeric,
her irises tapioca pearls,
hair flowing and falling from her face
toasted nori on the white rice her dress.

daily rehearsals of sixteen
odd years practicing lines;
memorizing them, repeating internally,
the stage she builds like a church
her loves oppose to the act,
but she builds an antidisestablishment
forcing her audience of parishioners
away from her.

He,
standing on my doorstep,
         it is only
He             who i open the door for.

He    steps in,     standing
     n o n c h a l a n t.
i offer,
offer to Him scalding tea
     with poisoned biscuits.

His fingers  taper
tapering to            claws,
claws that run along my collar
    collarbones

undoing my collar,
undoing my buttons down,
  d
       o
              w
                            n
and o! He unclasps the fishing hooks
where He wounded me                      so long ago,
the once open gashes now
      scars! scars! keloids and scars!

fear, fearing, i feared,
i knew He would be disgusted,
my impure skin, with bUmPs
and so many im pur ities,
      no longer am i blank,
blank slate,
                extra ****** olive oil to sear with.

and still, He ravages my flesh,
the flesh with purpose
purpose to summon Her,
      life.

He rips my insides, allowing
wilting, withering away,
    losing first blood was so long ago.
  the last i bled a month ago,
                  yet i need not fear fertility.

He is welcome,
He is here!
He uses me,
eats me,
inside me,
becomes one with me,
and then
He leaves.

His next visit i await.

time worth ash i spent in gold, two summers
ago sweet apples, a break and burst from
my old self, those iron anvil shackles.

there was she, a poem herself, her words
exotic and sour-- a drizzle of oil, olives
in her eyes; her treacle breath a shower

"words don't matter, meaning dies, just
think not your words you write-- syntax and
grammar shouldn't be used, and never out of spite."

she told me there of artistic lies, her ways
of writing bare, those bubblegum hearts and
lemonade tears evaporating into air.

talent was she; still she stood oblivious
laughing snowflakes blush, they melted
in the summer heat, wash away my crush.

there are lies in every fairy tale
secrets in every spoon
and both usually stay well hidden
from the time for breakfast
and the hour of bedtime stories

but there is a place
within the telling of dreams
that an old wise witch
of strange young beauty who
will read your fate
with only words of truth
that she stirs out of a soup
made out of the alphabet
of the comfortable lonely sky

she'll feed you slowly
with the spoon
of her mothers grandmothers mother
that has been handed down
from the first star ever born
to the last name
of the last god
yet to be named
or prayed to
and in that instant
you will know every secret
and detect every lie ever told

you will be a new babe
and an old man
and a young girl
stealing her first kiss
from a shy boy

you will be both
a nymph, a snail
and the leaf that feed you both

you will be
the last tree on earth
the first flower
to bloom on jupiter

the death of mars
and the heartache of venus

you will know
who made you first
learning that that knowledge
is negligible when compared to
the virtues of loves
true heart and reason

the witch will close your hand
and seal it with a stolen kiss
and smile and laugh and giggle
and give you a knowing grin
and you will understand
why spoons keep secrets
and the importance of lies
that hide in fairy tales

profanity--
a fun ball of words setting fires, unleashing
a world of endorphins and adrenaline, yet
seen to be shamed, a shameful act indeed,
so much in fact that we rectify these acts with
a payment of change and coins in jars.

****, ****, ****, ****, ****, and *******.

six entire dollars, gone to the swear jar, a
jar holding value for every 'mistake', mistakes
meaning freedom of speech, creative, raw, and
honest expression, and despite how there's no
difference between them and 'clean' words.

utter *******.

another dollar falls in, the sonorous ring of metal
falling into this closing container now silent, coins
cushion and muffle, marking my clearly abundant
profanity, a loss for worth and value to my poor
wallet and poor name, the money simply pooling.

freaking hellish.

a couple of bucks lost now, the last ones losr for i
shall now shatter this glass, nicks and cuts on my
shaking fingers from the shards as i pick my coins
back up, knowing i shouldn't have to have to pay
for mistakes that aren't at all mistakes, just simply
--profanity

i can feel the cotton
weave beneath my feet, soles
brushing against the sheets
as i scroll, waiting for the shallow
excitement of a notification from
you, this boredom and isolation
boring orafices shallow as my
joy and deep as my pain into
my skull for its been days and
weeks since ive seen you, this
loneliness confining me to
my warm and comforting yet
cold and distressed cotton sheets.