there is something tragic about the young.
there is something haunting about the ***** of a young man’s browning neck.
his neck and those sweet earlobes and the tremor and clench of his thoughts provoking him
and tension bleeding quietly through the tissue and muscle and precious bone. there is something tragic about the young.
men, how they break out of one neediness and into another….

i had this lover who hated women
he hated women because his mother hated him.
when he told me this i decided i would forever keep my heart away from him,
he was dangerous
and full of fear
and full of this need to destroy.
he needed to ruin.

he needed to tear into something tender and pure and foolishly expectant
and pour all of his darkness into the frayed, howling gap.
suddenly he needed something in my slightness, my body whiteclad and open and unbroken ...
one spring cold with persistence
i forgot about that promise to myself
when for some reason i felt                                     so ugly

and then yes  he ripped,

ripped softly

into me.

Once of a bride was I by a belle informed;
Who, on the very night of their honeymoon
Upon sighting her groom's dower, screamed
And would not let him in for his ***** boon,
Until she's taken thru the script the following
Morn by her parson's wife in cool counselling.


Many things in morals and etiquette do
Parents their children ever and anon teach
Except on this single unfolding issue
Will they falter to them plainly preach:
The act of marriage in its detailed image,
Cause it's found nay on their nurturing page.


An African mother will quiver her girl to lecture,
For instance, in the subject under review,
But will leave it to the Omniscient Nature
To instruct her like cry to a curlew.
So the bride's mom will not to her say:
This is how you should roll in the hay.


Neither will a father his son likewise tell
Explicitly of this duty--this too I know--
How to make his led-to-the-altar angel
Fly on cloud nine during their maiden show.
My pa never me of this nuptial scene told,
How in bed my lady I should stylishly hold.


Yet instinct, that great ancient teacher,
The green Adam and ****** Eve taught
On man's debut moment of ecstasy ever,
And did lead him to her piquant spot,
Whilst one another they caressed for affection,
Premiering for all couples conjugal copulation.


And the animals who do not the wisdom
Of man have, even every diminutive creature,
How each by divine smarts in their kingdom--
Like the fishes in the sea of their rapture--
Do with themselves mate with none
Giving them tutorials nor showing them ****!


To close this up where it had first started:
The *iyawo after the pending deed was done,
As it should betwixt man and wife, delighted
Was and with glowing warmth did thence burn
In the hearth of her *oko with ultra joy,
Who at the beginning of performance was coy.

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

AUTUMN
                   ,
                       shes got a pretty little
                       hair lip(fast over that
                       sad mouth)between
                       her eyes&chin; shes
                       got pretty bundles
                       of loose fat(and they're
                       her lips)she moistly
                       smacks around every
                       hem of whizzing
                       jackets skirting
                       hitherwither
                       with 'er wither
                       heavy teeth(shes
                       has green bits and
                       yellow bits, respectively,
                       thronging between
                       those thrusting ivory
                       cleats)she normally
                       wears and wears
                       death(so does everyone)
                       when she comes calling
                       ('tween october and december)
                       but she's just twiddling
                       (less like dead                             )
                        more like starting dead she's
                                                                               pretty like that
                                                                                                          (all rot and musk)
                                                                                                                                             she's gorgeous

and even then.
when: ruby sand
rubs youths notions
from thy soft aperture.
still i knee bend
to thy: lady so haloed
in my lashes.
ever always you are mine.
                                           and
                                       so
                                    to
                       ­          am
                                i
                      yours
­         gentle
stem

I want to sleep forever and reside in my dreams
           To frolic through a collage of different spectacles and scenes
                An escape from the insufferable, cruel world at large
I want to sleep forever

I want to sleep forever so I can live in my dreams
           The ruler of the lands, the queen of all kings
               With nothing to fear but the darkside of the conscience
I want to sleep forever

I want to sleep forever and fight my inner demons
        Provide peace of mind for all bothered and exhausted
              Float on utter bliss; those monsters, I'll never miss
I want to sleep forever

I want to sleep forever and never show sadness again
        Bright, long-lasting smiles on weekly sullen days
             Created and maintained in a variety of ways
I want to sleep forever

I want to sleep forever to erase everything
       I want to sleep forever and feel warmth again
           To bathe myself in content that won't ever end
Let me sleep forever

They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.

One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.

If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.

In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.

In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.

At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.

Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.

He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”

I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.

“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”