Sometimes ***** tastes like you.
Like having *** on the bathroom counter.
Like pizza movie nights.
Like getting high on the roof while reading poetry.
Like eating you out in the back of that church.
Like crashing that car in the field behind your house.
Like playing the guitar on your back porch.
Like the sound your horrid contagious laughter.
Like drawing hearts on each other's backs with crayola markers.
Like your tongue after the first cigarette.
Like you and me.
Like you.
Like us.
Like you.

Here she comes walking
The silent steps that hover on egg shells
Velvet incarnation
Her every word is where my mind dwells
There she goes walking
My body must be made of glass
Her eyes stay set forward
and I shatter with her pass

I'm telling lies to terrorize tame territory,
and so they'll strip me down, string me up, and bleed me dry of glory.
Mourning from the morning after, hanging from a ceiling rafter.
Two rows of platinum canines, call me a gangsta-veloci-rapper.

Truly emancipated, drinking whiskey from Lincoln's skull.
Proclamation of my bank roll grants more ***** than animal control.
Flicking cigarettes at MC's who think they're superior,
into their passenger window to burn holes in their interior.

I run all night, jiggle my handle after flushing.
All the plump gals seem to love me, I've got their cellulite a'blushing.
I don't like *****, but I'll sip on something Russian,
if you ship her in the mail first class from your Middle-Euro cousin.

What if you're not worthless?
What if they are wrong?
What if all you need,
Are the words to your own song?

trudging through mud waist-deep
these lungs are billows of smog and
these hands are brittle claws
world-breaker, I am fate unseen
through the clearest of lenses,
and the most acute of baubles
simple phrases caught in raw
and searing throats
with these ideas, my brain molds
an even more bothersome equation

We waded against sunwet grass in August
across the road they exhumed Norman ruins.

Shovels clattered heavy in the turns of a grey birdsoft evening.

An old well plumped in the garden, of string and wax
we made a vessel to lower against its echobrightened
depths.

To win a flash of water sparking bright
in shattered French sailor's sunlight.

When I was a kid,
folding chairs
were my kryptonite.

Floral print dresses
for the girls
who stare past me.