#oysters
Let me breathe the smoke between your thighs,
The way a drowning man breathes water -
my Queen of Oysters.
I will sup til hungers end
the elixir
then sup, and sup again
the banquet of your flesh
with the thousand tongues
of my fingertips and eyes.
This Alligator that hides amongst daisies -
let him sleep in the black garden of your hair
O concubine of Saturn
Open slow to the brush
rough hands spring petals
that gambol and gyre
in great prickles
through
the spine and scalp.
Let us run to the moon, together
or sleep til the noon, apart.
My Queen of Oysters,
Let me sleep in the black garden of night.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
This one is for the old souls—
for the minds sustained on stories
and the lips that speak only
in combinations of words dusted
with jaw-tingling purpose.
For those who can find salvation
in a good bass line
and the disciples of that
aww sookie sookie now—
for the air guitarists
who will only ever make it big
going solo at a stoplight—
for the pairs of eyes
that can’t help but see things
the way love is felt:
inexplicably with hungry fascination.
This one is for the old souls—
may the world always be
your zealous oyster,
producing enough pearls to fill
an Olympic-sized swimming pool,
and may you always be
brave enough to jump in
wearing only a smile.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
I don’t want to write yet another poem about you
about your gorgeous words,
and how they trickle like honey down my neck.
about the sweet way you seem to like
to email me.
for no reason at all.
about your smile, your laugh
and the way they just suit your face
so well.
about the fact that you once surreptitiously
asked for my number.
about the way you under-state things.
about your eyes.
about the curves of your lips.
about your glasses
and braces.
it’s creepy.
i really need to stop writing
about you.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC