I was told my poetry wasent literal enough
You got me there
In point of fact
It's just the wheezey stuff
One huffs and then puffs
But don't blow no house down
The ravening wolf
Who soft approaches
Wears his frown upside down.

Phantom,
In your ethereal realm,
Alone in your deepest thoughts,
Do you remember me?

Phantom,
Show me those pretty white claws,
Tear into my chest and write out the contracts
Spare the clause, I’ll applaud
Knowing I’ll serve love like a cause
A refugee amid war,
Where the roses cut with their thorns
I’d bleed out to chase you down,

My eyes search in the bleeding pallid rays
Cutting through canopies -
Dancing upon the umbral silhouettes
Hoping that magic can make you appear
Tell me you don’t feel anything anymore
That it’s all a fantastical dream wrapped in fiction

Reach out to me, please, with your diaphanous touch
Soothe my unattended storms
Make the space between you and me less impossible
Where I can taste the air where your lips tease
Please take me with you.

Could the see-through glass
Weep a little for me one last..
I’m trying to leave it all behind
But we are like vines -
Twist as we twine,
Why can’t we tangle endlessly?

Phantom,
Tell me when you wake,
Do you even remember me?

A diffident claim of the litre of liquid that singes my face.
Or an interjection, on the stiletto-edge of oppression,
Like the load of hands, flush against my iliac crests, like reins.
Not leading to any transaction
Through licking clean the wounds of a lifetime
That hurt with or without you.
(There’s a softer spot than the one you spoil for yourself.)

LEAVING    /    HOME
----------------------------------
Can’t believe / I’ll possibly get used to

Your aversion; / This treatment, or feeling

I’ve known all / Too well; of

Your negligence, & more, / Your delicacy,

With which I used to coexist —/ It is

Unimaginable, yet / Something more

Real / Than I’ve ever seen.

The cleave of your thigh is perfumed by something I am allergic to.
A large hit to my solar plexus for going down on you!

Custard-blonde tendrils dangle before me
Like a field of yaks, grazing tentatively upon your ****** back.
Lately they have been tumbling out spectacularly in clumps of fibre,
Forming barley or shellac-colored runes in the shower.

While cleaning the drain, mistakenly I
Touched a pale Daddy-long-legs that was crushed into a polka dot,
And let out a deafening scream
For you to stomp on its itsy-bitsy corpse till your footsoles wore brick red fishnets.
Then, left with only seven legs to lift its ***, it’d gone down like a ******.

After gazing into one’s lashless mung bean eyes,
I think I am going mad as the house flies
Who pivot into glass to pass their time,
Self-contained and distended as ostrich eggs

Bathing in a stream
Water cool crisp and cleansing
Nature at its best