Streets are wet with tears
Lipstick guiding sister smiles
And she combs sadness
--
She cried blasts toward him
Held her face kissed her beyond the clouds
Their own explosion

© Matthew Goff

I know of pink corners in the mind: Forest of sweet perfumes, whose travelers lend a hand to the ******* of sunset and its nervous mapping of amateur stars. There is a moment’s history in the certainty of salivating worlds: An odyssey for lovers who play cards at night and whose ideas for strategic foreplay are used like stilts. Hovering over a table, soaked with invisible juices, they are found flirting with each other’s secret personalities—heirs to the hormonal vibration of wet thoughts.

© Matthew Goff

Trickery by crown of aces
A contest of befriending faces
Noble curiosity stolen by sweeping shadows
Disguised in safe places
--
She stepped upon the pulse of the streets
And slipped between the drunken sheets
Hoping to find that familiar scent
Of ****** sweating in perfumed heat

© Matthew Goff

A collapse of tall trees
upon the innocent breeze
Of sullen faces, betrayed
by trial cases
--
Watch the women dive from treetops
Their men will probably fail in catching them

I am still while an arresting stare
Passes through my lover’s eye

She has seen the land fall with disgrace
And now waits for her transfer
From the mouths of celestial taste
Into the arms of boundless space

© Matthew Goff

Beneath the pulse of our lives
there bleeds a new laughter
A spider dune, seeds of cruel moons
--
Crowds who gather in sickening night
Mother teasing her gentleman’s cry
Hooray for the new talk
Ruined by its crooked walk
--
A tortured house spun from green silk
While children are nurtured ****** milk
A wretched web not yet built
A celebrated filth

© Matthew Goff

Streaked by the hours of moonlight
She sweats upon a rooftop cradle
A slow showering of heated liberation
As I swing along the fragile nesting of ivory branches
Stretched under the magnificence of her stability

And let her mouth, that soft vessel
Divide the gentle tide with a smile
That casts upon the crest of evening water
Two halves of a seashell

And let our embrace, soften the cool air
That parades around us, shedding secrets from our hair
And let me hold that hand that trembles
When the evening undresses us
With a yellow wink

© Matthew Goff

Leopard ladies will soon often prance upon men whose hearts are held together by single straws, by which a fragile connection has been made. Their skintight vestments hug them more tightly than any lover would ever dare attempt. Such intimate efforts are not beyond them but have been made afraid of by wicked arm’s length faces, dotted by the scorn of wild races soon to be held in trance-ridden spaces.

© Matthew Goff