when I first said I loved you
I meant it in a way that was
"I won't be writing 'I miss you'
poems about anyone else anymore";
because I'm rather sure
the way your hand holds mine
is like a pink-sand cave dotted
with pink-sand ***** whose puckered
russian red lips red rouge.
Affixed to your shirttails is a metallic brooch
large as the Moon,
so large and so Moon-like, in fact,
you're effecting the ebb of the tide of my many shores.
I want to wade the brackish waters of your skin,
sinking into the almond waves,
lazy smiles asking, Do you see
with those burnt eyes?
Do you know
you are fresh to me
like a newborn
Sit on my palm and read
it to me;
It is a story of the way
two people fall
At night while you sleep, I carve out
spoonfuls of gut, and wax and polish and buff
and replace it with stitches so fine
you can't discern the old scars from new.
She clawed her little hands through
the underside of my belly
splitting the skin so it looked
like layers of cake,
yawning between mouthfuls of
intestines and muscle
her bare gums as pink as a newborn
pudgy arms, heavy knees
strained with the heat of our nights,
her talons crept her down my legs and
over my heaving breast
I could just see
the first hairs budding, her two tiny
wings breaking the shoulder blades
a pain which made her
a slow roar rumbling from her pit, from my pit
and arching her back,
an ecstasy churned in her swollen, ogre belly
twisting her nakedness from Earth.
Oh, she is mine.
Oh, she is God.
I'm just a granite slab of a statue
I have moss on my calves and on my back
because I am facing South, towards
the far-off sea;
but even this is wrong.
Break my fingers,
Break my knees inwards
so that I come heavy to the forest floor
scattering into my many earthen pieces,
into my many girlish sighs,
every quiet sadness, every unrequited torment
slipping from my gut
like wet intestines.
Every tucked away breath spilling through my lips
as I lay my face cold to the soil
as I have so many nights to your shoulder.
It was a warm night in Madrid,
when I met her.
She rounded the corner like a siren would the sea,
dripping and demanding
her legs long, level and silk
with hips like two half moons
sauntering in a way
only gypsies know.
Her fingers danced delicate ballets
and from the nail beds
poured boiled sugar, coiling the length of my spine.
Burnt cream in colour
like her body, her demeanor,
dark, wild hair framing darker, wilder eyes
hooded Venus orbs.
Her *** candied meteorites on my lip.
We crank bones, we strip
strips of skin,
running meter sprints in the tracks
of our veins,
powering our fuel to ****.
We do the generation shuffle.
Our bare feet make blood brother bonds
with the linoleum, the carpet unraveling.
There's lockjaw in our spine,
each squirming vertebrae kissing the next,
stiff and bothered,
tonguing for freedom.
No better words exist beyond these
hollowed trunks, we say.
We say the journey isn't enough until our
toes are weathered stubs.
I've got a spare skeleton for you too,
We do the Saint Michael march.
[12th grade? 2007]