this desperate fleeing will come to naught
these poems the last mutterings of madness
the last paper to take flight in the cold black and white photograph of morning
her smile dripped with fetish
but the strong fingers of her words
worked at the lid of my mind
prying lose the harbored fears
and delving into the sweet meat

her own self portrait
is languid and driven with heat
curved back with intonations of lust
but benith its lurid covers
one percives the desperate clawing fingers
and ever hungered never sated eyes

my own photograph
lay out on the floor
stained with age
and torn along the edges
but benith its neat posed glib humor
one percives the
small room ages ago
where hope still endured
that room now vacant

i go
probably to my demise
a last black and white photograph
cast careless from the aperture
of a childhood's camera

everything we thought we'd be
never amounted to enough
everything i though she would be
was just as barren
as my lurid dreams