h

      U

     n
       g with

just the moon your
shoulders up hold
the round round
round head of

your

                                      body
            ­                          bodyy
                                 ­     bodyyy


holds the down *******
of your naked chest's
white hilt springs
between round rounding
head of
your shoulders' point
pinnacle, pinnacling
at the white white hilt
of Your neck

fit fits ****
(droop obliquely)
swelling twixts
the rude triangle
of your hips
                      hips
                              hip­s(


and the white hilt
of your neck
blunders
with
the course forest of my hand
suddenly grown around it                     )

grown up it the
pillar of it to
the neat neat       neat neat

***** of your mouth. There

h
a
n
g
s

the yawning chasm

where
all throats
lead to
. Scream

I fumble like a
frightened bird
shaking, I try
to tell you

No

does it leave
my lips? A fierce
kiss and the
words are swallowed

Whole

and my body
with them, arms
and legs bending

Twisted

a tree branch
in a hurricane
what chance do
I stand?

lying beneath
you, my blood
trapped in your
bones

the world covered
in shadow, eyes
pleasing, thighs

Bleeding

You won't remember
this, darling, it will
be a story in your

Head

A fiction

A fraction of
a person

Cast out forever
from the

Whole

dagger stilettos sever
the head off a clove cigarette
fallen from blushing plump lips
in a sharp, slightly stubbled face

so you hate him
because that's what we, humans,
do

golden ankles shine
from under a cloud of black
a flash of lightning blue in her gaze
intensity that frightens you

so you hate her
because that's what we, humans,
do

we spout that God is love
God is good
and perfect
and outside of time
not human

yet somehow
the Creator of countless suns
and sons
who shaped them in the womb
hates what he made

my bloodied, beautiful God
who made water into sweet red wine
who let ****** rub oil on his head
who creates, forgives, loves
does not despise anyone

humans do that

how convenient
to somehow believe it true that
God hates the same people
as you

He had the voice you see,
the timing and the just pause.
He knew how to colour and stretch
a word, just so.
He wrote quiet rhymes:
I’m a winder
(he wrote,
writing as a river).
I love to wander.
Every day I’m different
with stories to tell
of wild otter huntings
and crisp frozen winters.

The first thought I
encountered was ,
this poor girl
does not eat.

As our friendship
developed into
more than
I ever imagined
it would
I discovered she
did indeed eat.

When I
say eat
I mean more like
demolished all
that
was presented
before her.

Her sometimes
sickly appearance
was caused
by  the problems
she kept  hidden
behind a
locked bathroom
door.

It seemed the
porcelain hollow
had an appetite
for her insides.

Like a devoted
worshiper
to its Pagan God
she gave up her
offerings after
completing
each and
every meal or
even a snack.

Her sickness
clouded
her image
of herself.

I told her
she was
beautiful.
She called me
a liar and told
me to never
come back.

So I
did'nt.

There's only so
much you can do
for the sick until
they themselves
are prepared to
fight.