I gathered the ladders
One after another I strung them together
Planted their base
Like a bed of wooden flowers
And set them up towards the heavens
Till the top pierced
The white billowy clouds
And when I got to the top
The clouds didn’t stop
They went on like
A white winter wasteland
But I never found the place
Where the human race
Settles after they die

Come, my love
let us speak now
the language
of skin

imprint
your lexicon
in my every hollow

stroke that soft spot
above my hipbone
you love so well

linger there
like we have
forever

mold my body
to fit yours
wrap me in sleep

precious few
hours remain
imagine to never
touch again.

the women burn
their solitude in desolate pans
their underwear smells of blind hands
of running in the sun
of death a little
a moment of silence are wearing
between the legs
these women with still ****** hips
and the maniac blood slowly ascends
into nakedness

all they need is
faith

My body is my altar and I'll let you worship at it if you want
But you shall not find any holy books along the shelf of my ribs
You will not find any ancient scriptures along my spine
You will not find any commandments carved in stone except
"I worship at a temple with closed doors
I worship at a temple that belongs to itself
I pray to an altar thats last candle has burned but there is no darkness here
There is no yearning to be lit
I worship at a temple whose stillness should not be mistaken for emptiness
I worship as an artist overcome by his muse

A statue of a man
gazing down upon his empty hands
is all that's left of me.