After having spoken awhile of the predatory smiles that wake her from the bottom of a cup in porcelain sleep, the polite guests that convinced her that they too be included in the tea games, played by a thousand gold lions that prance upon the wooden clocks in her dreams, ripping them to pieces and having let bled a spill of mechanical works with insane parts, furiously looking for the history in which they will piece themselves back together, I once again fell under the spell of this profession, trained in breaking glass.

© Matthew Goff

Inside the day, convulsions sweep me within the circular tide, whose currents endlessly root themselves along the shores of disappointing sentiments. Abandoning a singular precision, in using reverie with a blade to carve out the jewels with splendid contour, fashioned after the exquisite role of the past, I have failed to attract the elegant throats around which I stalk the beautiful endlessly.

© Matthew Goff

Waves crash like your dreams
Changing and always rolling toward the shore
Loves are sea splattered
Your smiles are beach drenched
Seaweed in your hair
And you present a mystery
©

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

Nocturne in Butterflies

I am part of a secret race of bedfellows who, while draped in the rose linen of sleep, lash out at the dawn, a suffering enterprise, with a multitude of blinks, signaling revenge to the moon, my ally, which in the sized light of the sun, we can no longer see, yet, waiting until it sneaks up on the horizon, like an uninvited guest, our dreams will conspire in unison, like an army of winged blades, decapitating it in its own shine, leaving its bleeding fluid to sweat upon a flower, we will let it put butterflies to sleep!

© Matthew Goff

Herself

Every night I lay into a pink sleep, which is the secrecy of her arm’s love for me. There is a solace for me in her eyes… if only I could live in their reflections forever! A landscape of exploding glass-works, that trickle wet stories down her beloved face. Into my dreams, they will fire an inscription of dazzling intimacies, in soft-blue storms of light. I want to run away with her down private roads, that glisten with the unrest of heartbeats.

© Matthew Goff

Herself

Every night I lay into a pink sleep, which is the secrecy of her arm’s love for me. There is a solace for me in her eyes… if only I could live in their reflections forever! A landscape of exploding glass-works, that trickle wet stories down her beloved face. Into my dreams, they will fire an inscription of dazzling intimacies, in soft-blue storms of light. I want to run away with her down private roads, that glisten with the unrest of heartbeats.

© Matthew Goff