my *****-drenched Valkyrie,
you're a star, pirouetting around
Pluto, gamboling amongst galaxies, you are
terrible to behold, awe-inspiring in your
beauty and petrifying in the same.
a mouthful of liquor, and eyes
near-translucent; I can see your
soul, and I have never loved you
more. you are
silly when sober and
downright derelict when drunk,
a crumbling monument to
late nights and
later trysts; railed out
lines of Xanax
internalized through paper money:
this is the life.
this is what we wanted?
we aspired to more than we were, we
flew too close to the
moon, our wax wings
held up to solar scrutiny, but our
intentions
did not; we were
only kids, but that's
no excuse. just because you've
reached the
Age of Majority
doesn't make you any less of a child
of the universe,
scrabbling in the dust for a
semblance of meaning:
I am Sorry, you were Right, but
it doesn't matter now.
hold my hand.
please. I am
afraid to die
without you by my side.
with your fingers
clenched around mine,
I feel less alone.

merlot gnat bites
quivering from collar to
coccyx, a carapace of
swollen skin.
I rub myself
raw, aching for release;
is this
how it's meant
to be?
être, pas être,
it's all the same:
I am; you are
under my skin.

shuddering: throbbing head
mirroring throbbing sonics, floor
ashudder with stampede of
après-teen feet.
tonight you are
out of your depth,
not a fish out of water or a
drowning man, rather
an exercise-averse astronaut,
muscles atrophied upon return homeward;
you knew this was imminent, yet-
yet.
you weren't ready for
this, and there is sweat upon your skin and
tequila upon your tongue:
you have attained nirvana, and
a huge ******* to the Dalai Lama.
you are
self-immolating in your sorrow,
and no one can help you
because you won't let them.

reading ****** erotica at the
dinner table, dim lit,
dusk dreaming of you far too late
in the evening for thoughts
to remain chaste.
Drake's voice laps at my ears,
waves beating upon shore, pulsing:
it's your's.
my chapped lips pressed against
the base of your palm;
the gesture is
comforting, a reminder I
can absolve myself when
I am with you,
that I do not belong to myself:
it's your's.
I awake alone,
snared in sweat-soaked sheets; you are
long gone, not even bothering to
leave a note;
you know I'll be back.
after all,
it's your's.

laying in bed with ephemeral kate:
her hands are
brazen, fingernails clenching upon
my hips beneath the sheets,
her grip barely elucidated beneath
buttercream bedsheets.
her pale pink *******
cast aside hours ago,
and now the sun slants
westward upon her bedroom walls.
I laid waste to her skin,
ravaging her with lips and tongue and teeth,
and I am
sated, if only for the moment,
scent of her skin upon my tongue and
her ****** a badge of honor upon my mouth.
her bedsheets are ruins,
UNESCO World Heritage Site
waiting to be uncovered and reclaimed;
if it wasn't oh so lovely,
laying languorous limbs
asprawl, your stomach pulsing beneath
my thigh, her chest
rising and falling, rising and falling,
beneath my head; I always boasted I was
cutest when sleepy, and she always
murmured assent with a halfsmile;
that ******* halfsmile, playing
around the corners of her
endlessly kissable mouth,
lips glistening with a mix of
lipgloss and ***.
the sun dips down towards the horizon,
a girl hurrying homeward a minute after curfew;
her nails traverse upwards,
scouring my spine; my mouth is
pressed against her neck, tentative
words and laps embossed upon
the hollow of her throat.
she laughs, she sighs,
endlessly inimitable kate.

out goes the tide:
seafoam remains,
sticky white flecks caught on lips
of rock; how
sordid.
you traipsed on,
barefoot, undeterred by
pools of ocean-***
splashed upon every
cove afforded by
soaking wet sand.

the death
of self, exhaled, borne upon
wafts of
air, and
I, with my self-conscious
prose and pretensions
of intellectualism,
and I, dreaded I -
there is a beauty in
ideology; even wastrelism,
being the muck of the earth and
much reviled by Proper Gentlemen,
has its allure and adherents
those disciples of Dionysus,
bacchanalia becoming banal by
sheer repetition:
*****, *****, *****, shotgunned beers, and then-
TEQUIIIILA!!
crowed at the top of their lungs,
memory expunged by
hepatic-processed organic compounds.
of course, these mannerisms are simply
beneath you, disdainfully
catalogued by keen eyes:
no, your form of forgettance
is much more forceful, much less
fanciful and romanticized:
your amnesia is
absolute,
it required nothing less than
total dedication, mortification,
death of self as you
expatiated lusts, loves,
aught but ambitions remain,
and now, you have triumphed:
you stand solitary, skyscrapers
shining for your personal
pleasure, yet you can find,
none.