Soft skin
sliding slippery
silk in my
hand
like it's
singing
smooth jazz to my
finger tips.
Slow motion
solo
sending her legs into
vibration, the
bass in the background
around my ears
as the
moaning continues
as melody.
Quiet. I
wipe her
from my bottom lip
And ask her
to taste it.
Taste it again.
Look at me.
Focus.
Me
and you
now.
Through the
darkness of this room
and the
emptiness
of my eyes,
Please don't
get lost but
lose yourself
a little.
I don't want to be alone
and I want to
make music so
Release these
ideas of
sleepovers
and romantic memories.
Run off as easy as
your honey does and
only love for
this moment, love.
You mean nothing
but to feel something.

always afraid
she kept looking for
monsters
under her bed
without realizing
the real monster
was sleeping
next to
her

Bring me this chart
let me look to the
heart of it.

A treasure map?
I'll have some
of that.

While England expects
each man and their duty
I want the *****
call.

ha
but what I desire
is
the perfume of fire
and
the feel of the flame
on my tongue.

there was something unfair about the morning after

freshly showered, I arrived at the breakfast table
I was late
your friend talked loudly with my sister about rugby and I had
to sit on a stool because all the other chairs had been taken
you never looked up from your plate

this was the first time you made me feel
      small and ordinary
like it wouldn't have mattered if it was me or not
that my honest skin and wet hair
displeased
maybe
disappointed you

you,
the boy who usually restored self confidence
kept your eyes on the glass you were asked to pour for me
and never looked at my face
but passed the juice across the table still

I ate in silence in the laughing room
waiting
trying to steal your eyes and share a smile
but you never looked

and by lunch
our flame was out

Enveloped tightly in a space
that once provided enough
but never promised a lifetime.
She twists and unfurls
beneath its surface,
ignorant of even her own colors,
her shape, her scent, her purpose.
And when she breaks open,
it is not without fear of wilting.
It is not without fateful wonder.
Still, she blooms,
catching the sun
just as the universe intended.

Expose its flesh, eyes closed and
have at it, whole-mouthed.
Eagerly, without abandon,
I **** down to the pit of life.
Juices run down from chin to neck
in perfect rhythmic queues.
A sign, I think, that I’m doing it right.
When it’s all over, and
I’m breathless and sticky sweet,
I tongue at the strings between my teeth.
With nothing left to taste,
I finger this leftover seed
and lay it to dream
in a black bed of rich possibility.

Hell is fluorescent lights and the clicking of mice;
a place where the mind can’t breathe;
a place where the soul forgets her wings;
a place where the only flickers of wonder
are found in well-constructed Excel formulas.
This was never my kind of magic.
I often question why the little rectangles
on a spreadsheet are called “cells” instead of “boxes.”
Then it dawned on me: this is because
working these things as a daily job function
is the closest you can get to feeling prisoner
without committing a felony.
This was never my kind of magic.
Hell remains sedentary, listening to the same
fifteen rotating songs on a soft rock radio station
chosen by someone who makes triple your wages.
It’s prepackaged breakfast out of a vending machine,
eaten in a 4x4 cubicle that’s
fixed in a room without a single window.
This was never my kind of magic.
Hell is a cheap Chinese finger trap:
failing to find release
by pulling in wrong directions.
It’s a tight trickery that insists you stay
because you have nowhere else to go;
but my kind of magic is the inward force
that has met a friendly freedom.
It’s bathed in inviting shades of turquoise,
and fell in love with the solace of the desert.
It’s memorized the curves of mountain peaks
and collected freckles from every angle of the sun.
It loves the rush of blood to the head,
when racing the sunrise
on the edge of some atmosphere.
Something that hell could never
put its thumb on; this is
my kind of magic.