Your words are so sharp,
like glass, they cut me.
But I love your cuts best, so it's
     okay.
Speak,
Your words are fire, they melt me.
But I like how you make me melt,
feeling the heat, I'm more than
melted... I'm finally in one piece.
Mark me,
mark me dark with your kisses,
give me your kiss
Scrape me,
scrape me and abrade me with your
lips
Your words are so sharp—daggers,
falling they cut,
Cut me,
cut me the deepest
with your twin-***** tongue
between our kiss, then burn me
as our flame flickers and flicks,
dreams feed their fire
and we?
— Our love's even burning
wick.

By: Ashton Conor Amstutz

Sea pulse asurge, your pores brace for influx:
the scrub of sixteen salts whose rigid karma
scrapes us down. So sound the signals
(likely sales) from shoehorned sleeper
towns. Their patron wasn't long for earth;
a grid (what genius!) takes a bow,
puts slideshow on, and all we hear is how.

When sunlight stirs again we'll chisel
feeble errors, chip a bullet
out of stone. We'll see which skulkers
have a six at home, and toast
the night in sheetery. When devils
drain the foosty runoff of
your prim report to primal center,
sweep up white-horse myths bleached out
of paved-gray lots. Submerge in steam
of favor, frenzied in unseen replies
(no sharper catching eyes as coffees,
tipped to spoon in drowse-A.M.s
from furtive nights) -- Behold (unsold to rights)
uncensored action, living truth!
Untempted nine-percenters,
go-betweens for stunning tens
ground out of poison  pens.
Abrade with noise what was to clean our lens.