.                                                                ­                           B
                                                               ­                     e
                                          ­                                              n
                                                                ­       t                   e
                                                                           h                   a
                                                               ­           
                 creepness
                                                       ­                                                        S
                                                               ­                                 p
                              ­                                                                 ­     r
                                                          ­                             g               i
                                                               ­                             s          
                        ­                                                                 ­                            and boughs S
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                                d
                               ­                                                                 ­                                     p                  a
                                            ­                                                                 ­                                       e
                        ­                                                                 ­                                                    r      
                           bony fingers deeply
                           into richness darkly
                           they clamor down
                           into softness and
                           they get to you sleeping
                           into you they get creeping
                           and they crawl into your
                           eyes and ears

sprigs
                  and

                               boughs
                                                          ­           beneath creepness
                                                                ­                  do

I am not a martyr.
I am not so pious as to suffer the slashing of a knife-edged tongue.
For what cause?

What peace could my silence bring me?

My tongue is metal too.
Perhaps not as sharp as yours,
My words still have the soft scent of gold about them,
But it is metal too.
And I am not a martyr.

I remember when you coddled my name on your tongue.
It was safe there against the slick muscle and gentle press of taste buds.
Why is simple sentiment and unblemished truth to complex for you now?

I don’t want to play these games of ****** and parry with you anymore.
I am cut, you are bleeding, and we are both weary
From the constant cleaving of delicate flesh.

It is a bitter taste that blooms as steel is folded into my tongue
By life and time and all the things we never talk about.
My mouth is tinged with metal and my breath is wet with blood.


This, my love, is a battle for fools to partake in.
My tongue is not yet a blade, too dull for cutting.
All I want to be is soft flesh and slick muscle.
I am not holy enough to stomach the taste of blood on the back of my teeth.

I am not a martyr and neither are you.
So I’ll go.

I packed up my childhood
In a heavy wooden trunk
And hid it where no one could find it.

I thought that I could save it,
Take it out later,
And wear it again like my favorite coat.

But When they were taking me in the police car,
Packed in so tightly against the others-
Like sardines or slaves on a ship-
I lost my key as they dragged me from my mother’s home.

I am older now
And I still cannot find it.
And the trunk is too heavy to break.

I think of my childhood,
Alone in the stifling dark,
I hear it scuttling about sometimes.
And I want to cry.

my body wants to shatter into thousands of tiny waves,
with dotted i's and flawless traces
my thoughts are soldiers walking to their graves
stolid grins, formed feet in iron spaces.

Silverware, silver wear, a face staring into the depths of my soul, eyes focused, pupils dilated, one beat
two beats, three beats, a mountain naked in sulphur water, and ******* clad nature
hands warmed up around all the bread you can eat
and wait you're

gone again. that brief space where i saw your zero zone undressed
silk scarves unbound: your hair floating over your *******

you floated away again in the wind after you scoured the roads
saw how much you could ingest until your swollen body implodes

Wake up at 2 am, pull the curtains back
eyelashes dusted with moonlight settled on the black
little love sighs dancing with snuggle-time dreams
goodbyes issued by jazz men and dancers on their beams

my iron-clad stag
trotting the rag tag jag
singing in the band
-- a rogue hearted brigand
heavy hearted and pale
words useless and stale
terrified

terrified of everything: of the heart i don't understand
of the yesterdays in the sand
and the wan-waxed-moon
this blood-red flesh-torn tune

and the way we lie intertwined
like my soul's lost its mind
on this bed that smells like me
but not what was a soliloquy
not the future i can foresee
on waves of waves and seas of sea

but put your arms around my waist
lick my neck and savour the taste
because i'm floating away
but unlike the night-chased day
i'm losing this game;
this game of no shame
no shame, and I blame
the wind-tossed demon

and the gods of the sky
whipped by the clouds

and throw high and dry

One day, we will live in a little house.
                                 The color of buttermilk.
                      And we will plant a tree in our yard.

           There we will savor summer
               Sipping sugary lemonade
With our pinkies up, pretending we’re British.

                                                               Gram will visit in the fall          
                                                To can peaches and make homemade jam    
                                                         I’ve always had homemade jam        
                                          “You spoiled thing,” you'll say.  I know, I know.
                                          She will fill our tiny kitchen with nectared steam.

There we will shape snowmen with kinked carrot noses
                 Until our noses are nipped.
                   We’ll warm each other up.

                       There we will delight in spring and urge the buds to bloom.
                                        “Grow, little guy,” we will whisper.
                                                       There, the tree will grow


                                                             *And so will we.

Erdkunde Erdkunde, what you do to me
I like to learn about the river and the sea.

I sit next to cornelious, he has BO
and he looks like Georgina, but not a big fat ***.

Erdkunde Erdkunde, what you do to me
I am an acorn now I am a tree.

whoopeee

She's waiting for me across the river
Each day I row closer towards her
Dreaming of the day that we'll be together
My pace quickens after every wave threatens to knock me over 

Beneath me the river grows violent 
The waters begin to fill my canoe
And I see the mistress begin to fade
The warm river embraces me

I wake up upon the sand
The island is quiet
Peaceful 
I look and I am surrounded by an ocean
No mistress to be seen
Just an ocean
My ocean