It’s only ever once
I’m inside the box
of your mind
that my tongue turns
misty blue
and in small whispers,
I pass away,
dying in some nonchalant way.
Oh how the days race on by
and how you pretend not to notice
that I’ve got my eagle eyes on you.

Easy shells,
we’ve made a mockery
of legitimate feelings
but I cannot deny such vraisemblance

You are a beach
in September,
or a summer in
rigor mortis.
I think we were both dead
when we met,
only just beginning to beg for rebirth
and I brought you maps of no-man’s land
so now here we are

Stuck in the mud
of a pneumonatic love.
I will always be the coughing Queen of Anomie
and you’ve still yet to unleash
your lungs.

I was born twice,
once when the moon
was burning up
and then again,
when you whispered
my name for the first time.

I pressed a flower
in a book
to mark the date
when you hung
words, lost
somewhere in
my shelter.

I felt then
alive
for the first time
since I took that
primordial breath
and  lungs expanded,
I was hoping
you’d stay.

They say,
all that glitters is not gold
but your new wave voice
sent shivers down my spine
and I spent
what seemed like
an eternity
trying to shed my skin.

But then,
I was nothing
if not a bundle
of nerves & ashes
and you let me
exit.
Mind the door,
lest it hit in you on the way out

Your mouth is usually dry,
I’m sure an incubus
sleeps in your gut.

You were, at first,
a twilight ride
on a stormy night,
unprecedented submission
I confronted in autumn

I place your tender brutality
in the very back
of my medicine cabinet.

Amongst the radio and drug deals,
I lost my will to speak
You saw my sure hands
do all of the talking

There is contact
and then none at all.

The spectators cry
Plot ! Affection ! ****** !
But I play a probe
and you embody a shell

There is crescendo in your throat,
a cloud of static air in mine.
It is the punctual friction
that provokes combustion
yet there is nothing
about your face or history
that compels me to
douse myself in gasoline.

No, I let them come & go,
consistently riding that
endless wave of ephemerality.
Parade on in,
Provoke! Provoke!
I’ve got hours upon hours
to spend, delicately tracing
the hopes & hard-ons of young men.

By midnight, the cathartic compostion
is unravelling or rotting
& I’ve got my hand
down his pants,
hoping to call forth that
Saint-Lazarus sleeping at my core


Oh yes but how I do like you so,
said I, drowning in clouds
& flying through the bottoms of
sticky plastic cups
It wasn’t the truth
but God knows, I wasn’t lying

I would love to love you
I get utterly intoxicated
when you let me swallow your smile,
whilst you’re sleeping in my eyes.

It’s just that,
I only know to project my dreams
and lie awake,
melting beneath the cowardly heat.
Oh it lives on, the stiffling tension
of a fool with a thousand feelings
and a limited vocabulary.

Beware,
I must admit
there isn’t much beauty to be found
as I left my courage far behind,
in spring,
in a bedroom,
inside some other vacuole of desperation
and he fed it to the birds.

These days,
my declarations are dosed,
I keep my tongue on a leash
and my chest begets a cage.
I crawl inside my mind
and close many a door.

Young man
Words tumble out of your mouth,
sloppily,
Please, show some restraint

The bitter gave birth
to budding trees and
now I’ve come to know
the color of anguish.

Oh,how now,it tastes so shiny,
like iron, 100 shades of silver
Your lips are burning like a shell.
but I simply cannot fill you.

Love, you already know this,
I suppose this is why,
in your mind’s eye,
You see me folding neatly into your box.

Don’t bend me,
I won’t break.
Springboards or slinkies,
The bounce will bruise your baby-face.

Teeth, flesh, scars and pupils,
You expand and gasp for air,
feeding the fire.
I fear it may engulf you entirely.

I have no roots.
Clip my feathers,
Cover my eyes.
I could salt your garden.

Have you ever seen glass shatter ?

You’re stepping over me,
head fixed towards the sky.
All while staring straight through my skull,
and telling me I’m beautiful

But you won’t even look at me

You keep your feelings
locked away in closets
on the 2nd floor of
the house you were raised in.

You hang your anger
on brass doorknobs,
tossed on display
absentmindedly.

It’s been a decade since
a pair of lips graced your own
and now, you never feel
quite at ease.

The candles in your bones
are flickering.
Soon the windows on your face
will melt.

But you must see that these days
as there is dust collecting on the mirror
and all your razors have grown dull
You keep sweeping in circles

I asked you to love yourself
while waiting for the arrival
of those guests for whom
you left open the front door

But then again, you’ve haven’t
yet invited anyone in
and certainly, as you remind me,
nobody will ever come knocking

So who will be there to make you feel at home?