I have eyes of glass, you say,
Like a Victorian stuffed animal.

Your eyes betray your anguish
Strained or swimming.

Carnal snarl
Canines for ripping

Curiosity killed the cat,
How evading and paradoxical
When it is plain we are animal,
Grappling bodies.

When your eyes swim with pain and confusion
Regularly and sporadically
I am left at sea, afraid of water
Seaweed choking despair,
You are too busy drowning
To hold my hand

I am but fingertips
Sliding under

Drowned

I wrote you eight poems. They tasted like ground-up cinnamon.
The lights came, I told them I had nothing else to write.
When they laughed, my bones split with them.
There were brambles at the bottom of our garden, they held their heat like the arms they scratched.
They grew back every time like they were reminding us that nothing else could exist in the chemicals.
The chemicals said no.
My skin told me I didn't want to be there. My hands ached.
I held my breath for the length of the factory. I held my breath every first time you touched me.
When we turned the corner in the dark your indicator flashing against the wall made me feel like flying. I still feel that when I don't think about it.
There is a hole near the top corner of the front door. I leave the back window unlocked. Maybe you will find a way in. Maybe you are still trying.
I held my breath for you.

~


There, beneath the rubble,
the ash and the debris,
you’ll find a faint image
looking something like me

As I too stand, peering into the pile
wondering, trying to make
some sense of the torment,
though this pain is imaginary…

for I have strode this wasteland,
walked these barbed wire foot paths
many times in the past
and what once was pain,
is now what I am

and the silhouette of what is seen
in a visionary echo of long ago tears,
repeating through thorn crested decisions
and a true lack of self confidence,

dances on the acidic breezes
that engulf my heart
and paint my frown
in weeping watercolors of my forgotten dreams

The color of a slightly tipsy tongue peeling my resolve from my own is that of a winter morning
-- clear and concise in its purpose,
Sending signals to my brain, which, in response,
Transmits slight shivers down my spinal cord,
Raising the fine hairs
Along my smooth skin
--the same relaxed, whispy, ***** that covers tense, terse, and trembling muscles.

The sound of a shirt being pushed
Out of the way;
The sound of pants already crumpled,
Settled,
On the carpet my mother cleans.
That sound that represents
Everything I've ever wanted from nothing
But can not accurately depict
Anything I've wanted from one thing in particular.

Because you are special and
You make me want
And
You make my body tense and
My words short and
My lips loose.
Loose so as to open and receive your secrets given
In
False
Drunkeness
--to allow your breath to absolutely fill
My lungs
As you drag me down beneath the surface
And into the dark.

We are not blind.

Our nerves spark in the darkness,
The area devoid of any light source
save for those that arise from the
friction of skin against skin
and mind against mind,
Ideas crashing and banging together
As they
Escape
From our mouths
During our futile resistance to anything logical
Or rational,
Our selves piloted by the thought of
Unfathomable numbers and equations
That led to this moment
When our bodies feel everything
And our minds feel
Nothing.

We are naked before the eye of the God neither of us believe in.

This antique mirror boosts no confidence. Concave

reveals its magic tricks with an incurvate

red surface. Some human hair



blending braids are there to fancify your boxers, your removable

metallic silver suspenders underwear and

her red bra underwire slips. It is a new style.



I feel anguish, when I touch the pull locks. Her picture

of the antique statue is hidden between all those things. She



enters the mirror to kiss you every time you look at it. Like jelly candies



are her lipsticks on that silver, but

they have different taste. For me,

they look like isoquants, or indifference curves. I want

to leave you. What do you think?



The water that drips from the mirror, when I wash it, is like crimsonblood. Scary



optical illusions split the reality into two variants through my woe,

and create a much looser and less direct relationship

between us than ever. You live for

your comfort and versatility. You cannot change it.

Euphoria descends
when bass waves pound
feel myself ascending higher
despite two feet on the ground

eclectic, we are connected
children of the night
swaying in a lovely
conglomerating haze
obliterating the dust collected
from everyday life

i feel it with every fibre
every molecule, electrified
its like i've died and woken
found myself inside

heaven on earth?

sensory overload
no shortage of feel good vibes
lazers flash, colors strobe
front, left, center, right I see
smiling faces, warm embraces
never want to come down

my heart is in the movement
the music embedded in my soul
undeniable
i've found
paradise
and i still bask
in it's afterglow