Soft and smooth, I am not
married yet but
the bed knows me
well.

Jazz hands, sucker
punch, daintily like
ballet -- I am in
full bloom.

Crescendo with my
fingertips, petunia,
rose. The bed knows
me well.

Warm, disgust,
the ****** of the orchestra.
Plush, a slight stir
and a deep breath.

I marry in the bowels
of the night, ink,
glint stars. Lovingly and
pressing, I do
my own.

The feeling of love trudges
through the thick flesh of
my muscles like some
Siberian prisoner
through the
snow.

The sun hits my bed in
a blanket of heat
jagged from the blinds,
I have steady breaths,
I am an old
dog.

He will kiss me, and
our mouths will mesh
like the gears of detroit's
factories in their
prime.

In June you'll be a year older,
another flight of wisdom and
deciphering. I'll be in my gown,
powder room and all, putting
lilacs into my pores. The fig
tree outside will be in it's
ripest bloom, and the
juice will run down my lip
just how you like
it.

****** bride, the angels
cry, thunderstorms outside
are their tantrums.
Find me in the reading chair
fixated on you, the
sun seeping onto the floor
like spilled honey.

Yes honey, I do,
I do. I am in love, O
cuckoo.
I waded through the cesspool
and found the void,
illumination,
reaping light from this
boy.

My voice is hot and
sweaty, horse race runner,
jockey stride.
Kiss me on that
California beach ---
high tide.

Ruffle the feathers
Take a big step on stage now
Golden and disgust

It's a thick blue
awning, sludge and
sap. Wax trudging and
churning
in my
bowels.

I lay in the
bed, like some
sort of fat cat --
just eaten my fair share
of mice.

Disgust and
green, bubonic and
glee, can I
smile? Can I dial?

Can I
laugh. I've gotten
off the phone with
the quack.

Medication so
raw and sore like
boils redder than
dawn and more,
chinese red and
yellow ochre,
feed me nausea,
until it's
over.

Sometimes I believe the
only reason my lips are
flickered on my face in this
grand fire of red,
is to say I love you and
kiss you and to
do dark things that
keep behind the
shades.

These ligaments O
What were they
created
for? To feel your
gooseflesh and
blushing
face, warm like
petunias

And I am your
carnation, daisy,
flower. My busy
bee, scholar,
how everything glitters
gold with
you.

What a strange instrument of
desire - how can it be? I
am cut out of flesh and
twenty god forsaken years
later I am wanting another
form inside
me.

I do not feel
it.
Warm, is
that how it
is?
I am
shown.

A grand view
of the miraculous
***** of
man. He is
curt, red and
ready.

Will my body react as
an infant does to
citrus? Lemon cadmium,
squeeze and
shriek?
Charred, boiling hot
like thick wax.