A small hatch opens

in the fog, there's a small hand --


waving a little.

How am I dry
When years of anticipation are melting like a glacier?
All I’ve ever wanted
Is standing at the end of my bed
With his cold hands
pulling apart my thighs
So why am I fighting so hard
To get out of my head?
When he looked into my eyes
I saw guilt staring back at me.
When he kissed my lips,
He hated that they tasted unmistakably mine
And not of his lovers.
Our timings never been “okay”,
I should have taken that as a sign
To keep this a fantasy.

If you think about ***
while getting your eyebrows threaded,
it doesn’t hurt nearly as much.

All is quiet and
All is still
And the thick curvature of these hills
Rolls on against a starlit November night.

Spirit boy
Draw me in
Hands gentle as the midnight wind
Caress the contours of my chest
Like earth against my skin

Or flames that lick
And bend.

You are born where mountains begin
And your soul is both stone and sky
And quiet laughter ringing through the infinite galaxies
Of your eyes.

Spirit boy
I can feel
Your heart is beating

Wild

And I am pressed against your wildness like a desperate tide

And I will spread and rise and crest and break
Against your hardened precipices like the raging river
Against the rocks.

And when
From the highest perch above the valley
The
Hawk
Takes
Off
And the untamed horses run

I will grip these sheets and scream

And lose my breath
When you press into me,
Trembling,
Like a heavy mallet
On the sacred drum.

Lying and cheating do start somewhere
in beauty, making something more beautiful
than it is, just take a look
at yourself

everyone and everything that is offered
to make money, even ruins
are more with a little fantasy, so
buy a ticket, look, hear and shiver

near the pet crocodiles in living rooms
clearing their throats inside chests

at a boy between the hunebeds
drowning anxiously under white veils

from the delayed boom after the whizz
of the widow's dropping blade

at the eternal whining of the sailors
in the captain's gin bottles

with the jubilant angels over the baby
in the manger, and smell the dung

drink the romance of
imagination in power
with the hard facts as a decoration
for those interested