I have a headache from dreams clawing to break free.

There was an Old Man, on whose nose,
Most birds of the air could repose;
But they all flew away
At the closing of day,
Which relieved that Old Man and his nose.

there is, after all,
one thing
(after my breath)

–a star–

hung loose
and into the night
(which is my soul)

dreaming through
moist lips
and the cup of flower

a kissing of pale light;
the rough newness of rain;
and the smell softly afterward.

She wore mountains round her neck

           (“No, lower.”)

Peaked with scented minarets

           (Softer and sweeter than strawberries,
           grander than a psalm.)

In the gulch between words
I offered you a prayer
and you wounded me with a poem.

I watched you  move
like a summer night
to disrobe the cover
of your collected works
           -a landscape of fire and blood
            that beats a wardrum
            deep in my hungry river.

Your petals pressed against my lips
           to drown , to drown
                      gladly.

She wore mountains round her neck,
and I wore her ankles with a smile.

My love bird – a carrion crow
           (unwished)
Who’s beak reeks of narcissus
           (the scent of thee)

Let me call the black rumble of wings
to fill skies and sheets
with the thunder of your feet.

           (Ah! Love. What A thing it is
           to be feathers on the wall
           and flesh in ice.)

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.

You’re less subtle than susceptible
to the sun rising
to hands softer than mine.
The smoke colors your fingertips
tarnished turmeric gold with
life passing through them
in waves and ripples
like Warsaw’s children
playing on the wharf.

That foam splashes up behind a sun
the rose hips on your hips, an alabaster canvas.
Nothing falls gracefully.

Brake,
break,
grab, slide, ball
like an infant safe in your ******* womb.
Cars around growl poised in packs on round haunches.
I hear finesse in relation to broken teeth,
rats in relation to style.
Like writing,
your name
on an outstretched rubber band
watch yourself shrink
and fly away every time
I see you let go.

Your teeth like drywall looks
when you’re eyes’ve gone red.
I want you like a child’s first attempt
at perfume
too much alcohol
and pulling blush from a warm rose.

Turn signals of cars looking about
to turn to here but don’t
blink at about similar pace
to a heart doesn’t leave
any metaphor worthwhile though the
fact melted ice cream on the counter
next to food served to people I don’t
know reminds me of the first time
I masturbated successfully does though.
Me touching something that goes into you
about the opposite I want both
closeness and indifference a balance hard
to maintain as kindness and the pace
needed to get things served so
kindness isn’t needed like
by archetypal male figures who can
slap a person they love to mean it.
Saying I love you doesn’t mean I believe
it under different circumstances I don’t
mean I’m lying either. Either it’s really
that difficult to explain or it’s just
difficult in all either way here
I’m still having difficulties
with the way your lips open or
when we’re talking how I’m
hoping they’ll be licked for
decent or my own reasons.