“give me your linguistic promiscuity”^ Cyrano to Roxane

trifle me not with sugar and spice,
give me salt, and everything not nice,
Campari, with a spritz of lime bitters, doubling,
the bitter sexiness of your taste buds
on the private parts of mine mind

the body’s parts held a conference,
who is the most important of us all,
all spoke, touting their unique servicing functionality,
at last, lastly, the tongue spoke

“none so powerful as this itty bitty muscle-me,
for with a chosen-few, well claimed, words whispered,
can put all of us in a prison cell to rot collectively,
utilizing my linguistic promiscuity, enticements seductive

so beware the disastrous dissatisfied tongue,
needy for 24/7 accoladed attention,
fail to worship can result in bee stinging poetry,
and jealousy

my love is bitter, my taste buds glory in this wondrous horror”

except for my Roxane


<>

i've been having a difficult time
deciphering fact from fiction and fiction from
dreams i had when i was a child,
the percolation of the cells
in my chest grow heavy, enormous,
even,
pushing into my throat these
cries for anything
but drowning, anything but
tornadoes all alone,
but awkward kisses and tear-stained
celestial sheets of cotton.
where is my passion? have they taken it all?
was all that blood i've shed a lie?
do i want to end up dead?
i thought intellectual stimulants
and forced photographs in front
of that fountain, again,
could be enough to elevate my senses
back to reality, but i have only
learned how to decorate the darkness,
to numb the throbbing thoughts,
to stuff full the leaking veins of
love and lust and lost breaths,
enough to get out of bed
and into his or his or his
because i remember this place
from a dream i had as a child
and it hurts, i hurt, you hurt,
i smile and ask for more

I would rather not have frowned at the frau
She was my friend
Slatternly, frowzy, bedgraddled gal
I always wondered how and why she liked me
Like a boy who could be psyched out by bosoms.
I wasn't
I felt it peasant like.
Like a tike feeling in the dirt for flukes and rakes
Rake, she said she thought what I was.
Which would mean I could make her heart buzz
and would mean we could be one another.
Another life left to lonesome fevers in panting fogs.
I matter, so does she.
Dark matter.
Slathered in holes, stolen goals.
God we were the same.
It's a shame we were the same.

She’s a *****
They say
As she lies on her back
They hear the moans and whispers
But they can’t see
Her vacant eyes
Or her clenched teeth
They can’t see that she was trained
Trained to please
A piece of her soul is taken
Each man takes a piece
But they can’t see the broken human
Beneath
They don’t understand “no”
She was taught to be this way
Taught to suffer silently
She’s a harlot
They say
She gives them what they want
Little do they know
Inside she is screaming
Increasingly repulsed
by their touch
but her body is not her own
So she lies in her coffin
It’s easier to rot away
He rolls off of her corpse
Panting
She’s a ****
He’ll say
It was so easy
She’s a *****
But she’s the one who pays

I expected the spaces left to shrink
I thought my body'd forget your square shape
I hoped my holed heart wouldn't be left agape
Boldly naive, a baby dressed in pink
I hate you for leaving me stuck to think
You were the only one here not an ape
I don't want to patch my canyon with tape
But no choice I have, you left in a blink
Now, it's my duty to bat my lashes
First to mop the crystal geyser of tears
Secondly, coquettishly-over to him
Who he is matters not, only passion.
Hotel? Motel? I'm sick of these affairs.
Alone, I must remain-with him in Grimm.