leather of codes

child of no garden I want to be trash shining metal bucket streets

echoes of his scars crash deeply from his quick glance and words
his crushed inner faces blow by me like shotgun shells flipping ejected
a warm burn enters my ear and falls to the ground like pure seed

there has been a siberian tiger heart perhaps
a trumpet's bright coming tip in the night is his voice

but night has no color, only the air of space and eternal infinite collossalness
he has not been there, he knows I think I have been

his voice hunts in silence the opening of his throat
I never felt my neck arch as though I were angelic spinning holy pollen

my feet are broken from my birth's uncertain angles
my white skin is somber to me and it dreams of thick, muscular hair

his back hunts me like a prowling silent perfect killer

he has no meat for me in his most beautiful kind thoughts, nor ice
I know he does not want my soul, its irrelevance like bad country music

he glares at me his eyes are beautiful in their transubstantial wizardry
as though I a child with no hope to ever be less or more

this is the way beer cans bounce of cars better than wet silken ******* may rise
he has felt his lover's wine fully enter him in his sweetest moments

I am a child of no garden he would have
but thoughts of exclusion are often only private codes of want

his serbian tiger motion is utter but I am child of no garden until I can dance
I know he so poignantly relevant would in some fierce and mad
teach me of my father

that I might be coddled beyond redemption  my white skin
he wants to giggle a soft stance or a minion of pretense

I am fully truly what he sees, yet I cannot touch him
he has no time for me I would see my heritage's murderous take

he knows I bow down to his conspicuous innocence
he has forgotten the child he knows I think I have been

he wears a leather of codes I can never remember