If you were a corpse accepting cremation
               I would be the flame
                             that lavishly licked your flesh,
         the heat, heaped for your hair on a pyre
the last peril your boney body submits to,
making the air all around stink of you.

Forget the fact that you corrupt my mind,
             it’ll only work out if your thoughts stink of me.

                                       If for one second during
                        your self worshipping, wistful stares
          into a mirror that drips a musty condensation
                       that lingered from your skinny, ****
                         torso after your morning shower, you
                                stand there smile *******
                          yourself with puckered lips and
          un-dilated pupils, flirting with
                          camera phone pixels you think to yourself;

                                                     * Should I post me on myspace?
                               Should I send a text message pic to myself?
                 Should I forward it to that guy that I met
           to make him think that I’m burning for him?*

                             If for that second I could be but that spark,
                an after thought flare that gets you to want
                    more than what it is that you got,
                                          where would you go?

             With whom would you make yourself over?

I’m waiting for the morning your ashes
      wake next to me; smoldered and spread out over my

          mattress and under my breath, and
           your eye lashes charred with clunky mascara
                 crumble as you replay in your silly head
                          the late mass I celebrated last night
                                                   when I exhumed and inhaled
                                    that same condensation;
      
Little taste droplets of you then exhaled  
          from me to your golden tin flesh
     that burned you to ******.
      
                    Because of my tempered tongue you
               cravingly bathed with,
     because of your hair I feverishly wrapped
                round my fists as
         my head altered and smoothed out from whiskey  
    bounced waves of frivolous  

thrusts      pulls releases,  
           pushes      twitches              friction

                                                in perfect timed fashion
                                                between your radio
                
                  antenna       thin           legs  
      and your rib meat torso
you forced my lips unto.

                                                           That will be the night
                                   you will come.
                                                               Yeah, that’s right            

                 SEE                  YOU                    MMM-hmmm,

                                I will see you melt on that night.
                                         And it will be your cremation.

I keep fondling dreams as I  
flip through FOX, CNN and MSNBC networks.

An electric lady land fantasy
of revolutions where over and over and
under and through inconsistent gibberish of
conservative conversationalists’ and
liberal libel is taken for truth.

My heart is pumping out toxic fiber optic
editorial journalistic pollution like kidneys
                        secrete the habit of alcohol and
                                             cigarette poisons.
  
Our dependence on government help is
broken glass shards ruining the
veins of society

while Limbaugh, and spring chicken heads with a
View are enslaving our voices and
limiting the truth of our choices using
eminent domain for our minds as they spit out  
their opinions through television and radio
frequencies into our brain waves as truth.

How some American hearts stay warm with
nightly news schisms, burning intolerance,
unreal realism, religious sincerity posed
and limp **** ****** commercials
is amazing.  But still a paradox hoax.

First she puts on a skirt

And pencils on make up.

Then take her out to a night club

not the alley or curb to be picked up by another

She twirls and twists

as lights bounce off her all night

and we thump and grind on the dance floor.


We soon stink of sweat
Her breath of tequila margaritas
shaken not stirred and
soon it's time to go home

She gets hungry for drive through food

of a taco or two and when the conversation

turns we turn in to the drive way and

We’re home.

First thing she does then is walks in the restroom,

That’s my girl, still looking ****

even while taking a dumpster.

It's not you and it’s not the feelings
I couldn't make you feel.
It's not the things I could have said but didn't
And it isn't your laugh that I could get used to
Or my hand that didn't touch you
but misses to be touched of you.

It's just me that can't seem to find
someone like you
It's just me that you can't find in love
with anyone
including you.

The lone and the hungry we find and discard
And I cannot be happy being without what swims in my head

It's not you, it's not her or anyone
but the one I couldn't let in.
The one I can't seem to find
who like me is alone and
knowing like me that these words are her own.

And I can't be me without what dives deep in my head
Together with the falling of a heart that’s flooding.

I cannot feel the mystery of love
So I regress to sense an empty sky of alone.
Believe me it’s not you why my face has turned sour
It's just me that wants you to be
what I know I cannot attain

It's just me that needs to get back
to what I know I once felt.