Desire inspires vampire tendencies,
as I lay succoring on her supple flesh,
the sweet scent of ***
pours off her porcelain skin.

It was a small
white plastered walled
room
where I sat alone
studying French
before the bell
would sound
and send me home.

Cracked bits of plaster fell
turning to smoke
as they hit the floor
making a thin white mist
of dirt that exposed
a hidden figure.

A silk specter,
she moved through the air
as if gravity
wasn’t even there.
A beautiful swirling
nightmare
swimming in
this stale atmosphere

Dangerous hands
that could caress gently
or strangle menacingly.

Better than the bitter
poltergeists
that haunted
Hollywood screens,
cause she was
far more fascinating.

Undefined
mistress of
lost minds,
who lost time
trying to find
some sort of meaning.

I watched her
confused
and amazed
at the sight displayed
as she played
in some sort of
ethereal realm
allowing me
to see.
all of her
abstract majesty,
but just as quickly
she evaporated.

I do not think
anyone will believe
this strange story
so, I made it in to poetry.

Hopefully
she will come back
and haunt me
some day in the future.

How much mayhem
can a madman
make in
eight great
lonely days?

Can he
at the behest
of his eclectic intent
find a way to
circumvent
the abominable
paradigms
of malevolent minds?

What does is take
when he pulls up
all those old stakes
and tries to make
something that
never was
better because
the alternative
is a slow
mental death?

just when the dust
settles round my lust
and the thud
of despair hits bottom
just as I flail
and swim in this
blood-caked,
         soulless earth
soup of the lost
abyss of unbirth  
you plunge my wilderness
charred with remains
from hellfire
and we breathe
                 halos  
our bones lighted sticks,
colors rising in
angel arcs

Your rib cage
is open
for my tremulous offering
as my lips imprint
a crimson O
upon the earthquake
of your chest
I am still down with the
                           earthworms
wrist **** sopped
                    by soil
arteries, bashed
split to the root
by verbal hurts
in a sliding psyche of oil

yet here you are
suturing wounds
with whiplash kisses
saltlick moans in my throat
You wrap me in gauze
through the imprint of your eyes
turn my cuts
into fresh brook
gaze upon my
deepest darkness
like goddess worship shrine

my **** is a funnel
for your whipped light
sacrifice ****** prayer
skinned to the core
all layers exposed
your lips slick
with the drip
of my bliss,
deep juice of
freshly-caught
jungle hum
all is bared
we stop at nothing
paint our tongues
with tears
adorn the face of death
with ripe guava
and, as you scream
my name into
a blown glass whisper
my soft fruit
falls into
the heat of
          your palm

somewhere
in distance
a
        moon
explodes

Here is a secret,
To those who are close
and think that
they know me.
they don't.

It is a shade that they see
partial reflection
distorted version of me.

I am more than
you realize
and less then
you know,

cause when you are certain
I am certain your wrong
and when I am right
you say the words
I share don't belong.

Academic
intellect
artist of
endless depths,
passionate
and
depressed
by all of your
callousness
and lack of
curiosity.

I am luminescence
in the form of excellence
self-celebrant,
brilliant,
creative,
compassionate
and­ a consummate
gentleman,
mostly,
constantly learning,
growing,
and changing
with the integration
of next generation
information.

That is my secret
those who are close
and think they know me
don't really.