The smell of her hair
is not lavender or perfume.
It is chlorine summers
and cigarette smoke at a party,
a good party.
Her skin is not velvet.
It is fresh, white linen
that feels like home
the second it is smoothed over the mattress.
Her voice is not a whispering mother.
It is the ocean against the shore
seeping deep into the sand,
wishing it could stay longer.

She tastes her tongue
-stuttering, spluttering-
and recoils -bitterness
and bile- slobber down
the side of the chin,
spitting it out.

She tapes her tongue
to the front of her
teeth -so that it
does not touch her
uttering buds going
down-

Slurping loudly
the syrupy silence
and its sounds
her thirst grows
to frenzy

Sacrificial  
blood offering
-trembling-
to the ancients
within her

They say mad, they say insane
What's insane?
The voices would disagree
They say mad, they insane
In such a beautiful way
What's insane?
The voices or you?

Now,
You
Are
Reading
My
Poem
And
You
Might
Hate
It
Because
It's
A­ctually
Senseless
And,
Right
Now,
You
Would
Stop
Reading.
Oops!
I­ guess
I was
Wrong
But
Now,
Really,
I know
You'll
Stop
Right
Here
.
Guess
I was
Wrong
Again.
This
Time
I won't
Be wrong
Anymore
Because
You
Would
Really
Stop
Reading
This
Right
No­w

Tallow mends
Though wind cuts
Furrowing curtails
Absence missed
Shutter shuts

Benign, benevolent ballerina bubbly bathing by beautiful blossoming balsams.

A gander I took and I was a statue, still, allured, and enchanted. my lips basted by beauty, before her I was an apparition, lost in forests of adulation.

A vanishing spirit soon to be a vestige of a vestige. I shall wage wars, arm myself and battle my way to her hands that can melt the glaciers residing in my heart.