his voice
is night
hungover
from long binges
and hearty upchucks
large lump-sums
of bright pinks and soft reds
- i think i might just love him-
what could be so wrong,
with so very little     *fun.

leave me be
       with the toxicity of my thoughts
breathe me humble into the blades of the night
dream me pure through the comforts of my words,
on this night i feel deep within the roughs of his voice,
southern charmed beneath my lobes, on this night,
i heard his noise in my thoughts and indeed, he did
                 sing to me,
great poems of comfort

(if i parentheses you)
this
(and)
that
(separate of the pillars that bowl past heavy tonsils
maybe it'd seem as though heaven was closer
and the nuzzle that triggers tiny slips and
flicks against the pulse of my fingers would come alive
behind large bulbs and very tiny eyes,
much too small to fully engulf mild realities wild
on the bottoms of tough poison, mulct philomaths'
raffishly spatting at loose tongues,
how dare they tell me)
this
(and)
that
(and never)
the other.
(if i parentheses you)
this
(and)
that
(would it count to you, dear scholar,
as a structured poem properly scrolling
down the braces of my spine?)

"I believe I believe. I should write a little less and live a little more," each day, I say, but then again, I find myself back to old habits, again and again, the world sure does look nice, from my vantage point, although I've yet to see it.