Everything about you is miraculous.
I have no words to give you
because they all taste like apples,
when they should taste like pomegranates.

It is all too generic, nearly – spiritless
to call you beautiful.
I am merely
existing in this dazzling
vapor of mania, that I
so             clearly               see
buzzing mad about you like hornets.
Only psychotic pills can describe what you mean.
Everything makes sense, in that, it doesn't.

I want to tell you all my dreams. And somehow communicate
that I think you are far more staggering
than I could ever articulate.

Isn't it a sick shame
that those – I mean those
wickedly gorgeous human beings, those with souls
heavy and earthy as antique clocks,
souls like tree moss
living for ages on wood sheds;
souls warm and tormented
like voodoo shops and dreamy sunsets;
souls like ruptured stones,
in-grown toenails and volcanoes –
those who,
should take compliments
and tuck them away on the wide shelves of their hearts,
instead –  
handle them like steaming acids.

I only wish you would

take more than a kiss from me.
but I feel content
also obscene and distracted;
listless yet
serene – when we
share a close space.

The aesthetic I find, I cannot ignore
nor quite place.

It smokes. It intoxicates.

I want to describe the spices in your curves,
(surely you must know) – the organic magic of them
and how they flow, sway-swaying
gentle stream, always waiting to be
dipped into.

But, there is
an energy far more hypnotic than lips or hips,
it is familiar yet new, and constant
and constantly

enticing,
beneath your skin, behind your tongue
somewhere twisted within
your twisted brain –
it gives me
sharp visions of grandeur, like African whiskey;
I can hardly come back from it.

Your dark eyes beaming in the moon rays
like violet plums chilling in water.
Sweet hell.
My heart hurts so brilliant.

When you are near
I thank the stars I that I am, too.
I close my eyes and I am a poet.
But once, as is inevitable
you go; I am helpless
as I am when the clouds move.

The satisfaction I felt
evaporates, in seconds,
just as it came.

one, two, three...

I feel directionless

and ordinary

in all the sober haze.

Daylight needles up to my window,
smiling bright, jaunty, and annoying.
I tell it I am not
participating today.
I'm just doing showers and sleep.

Avoiding human life and signs of mirrors.
Noshing away cold french fries, sipping last night's wine
in my boy-shorts, favorite Spider-Man tee
and signature vampire demeanor.

With achy bowels and a mind like a gallon jug –
The people-sounds outside are heavy
and I, irrationally,
feel judged by every living thing.

Still, I will not leave my bed
like a loyal pet of a grandmother.
There will be other days to
adventure on,all young and fresh, I'm sure
maybe tomorrow I'll break the slump.
but for now my blistering eyes won't stay open;
My whole mouth tastes like a dump
and this back of mine feels like torn paper.

Muscles sink to dust, and lay quiet as a lamp.
Hours slip by. Only Netflix talks to me.
My body dims down like the laptop across my chest.
Yet my thoughts
surge me on
        and away like ******.

And in my mind, I feel shiny, worth-while
and suddenly beloved
and famous.

Husky honey-whispers
escape her lips like smoke.
My stomach goes all hurly-burly
and I forget how to use my hands.

I bite my tongue. I bite my lip. My eyes implode.
I imagine I blappity-zap  
a-twistin' and a-turnin' into some 1940's cartoon fella
hair black and slicked back,
heart poppin' out my chest like an alarm clock.
All I can do is stand around, pretending I'm not
getting drunk, just by – staring
at her.

She can't see me like I see her.

I want to stomp up on the dining table,
then burn the kitchen sink down

and scream ******* to the land and sky
for making her and I
as things not made for each other.

She plays around with her mouth on mine.
She holds me like a sister, and kisses me like a pet.
I melt with every moment I get.
She will never love me.

your hand sleepy
and resting deeply
in mine,
the sound of your voice
pecking like a sparrow,
tickling my heart back to life;
beaming, vast, sunshiny
and unbroken.

Lake waters rose heavily, forming
the wall with a line of sinking clouds
about to burst forth.

And for many violent
seconds, hail hit,
giving off a terrible sound,
like elephants
toppling to the ground.

Just as abruptly as it
had begun, so it ended.
Sun met rain
and birthed an eye-grabbing double
rainbow that hung dazzling
and quiet;
it, too, for mere seconds...

There's an awkward thrill I feel
like wicked-wet rabies –
Oh. Ah. Oh.
To gaze over photos of the woman I created.
With my warped perception,
saturating and cropping everything into delicious
oblivion.
I am the knife as well as the ingredients
that sauteed her together in a camera flash.
She sits hot like heaven.
And I want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.

The woman I created, I hang up like perfected rotisserie
and fall in love with her accidentally every day.
Looking into those precisely underlined
tiger-*** eyes of startling navy. Knowing their true dullness.
Hissing at the free-swinging curls
and the hours behind them. Loving the lie.
The flowy top and sleek trousers gliding down lovely as Niagara
over chaffing chub; all hidden. And thighs; unshaven.
And that topical smile everyone likes to see, waiting to plummet
into suicide like a kite hanging in one tight second.
Her image is my greatest
False accomplishment.

I hang my portrait up on a wall of the internet
for people of the world to migrate to
the photo exhibit, my little show-off room.
They make offers and toss compliments
with their “I like this. I like this." nonsense.


They don't know that the girl in the portrait, she
isn't organic. They seem not to notice
that she is something of a chemical flower.
Her face is my face, only with whiteout poison-paste
smoothed over twice.
And they want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.

Gazing upon her believed-to-be beauty, as I hang my paintbrush,
she bites her body still as a painting,
bruised and needled
into perfect frame. She cries
like Jesus Christ, as she is stared at, but not seen.
I am the artist as well as the object.
And the woman in the portrait is
nothing,
but dot after dot of manipulated color.
And we want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.

You have time and I have ink.
We both, use each other
until we completely run out,
then somebody throws us away,
and on the same day
the next one is made
to fulfill the purpose.
You think you are so unique.