Soft touches on the inside of my skin,
sensitive to your every stroke,
playing with my senses,
sending sense flying to the winds.

The longing to touch you,
the hunger to be part of you,
the heated fantasies of skin on skin
and finding surcease within.

Inhaling your scent as you passed by,
drinking it in to satisfy
parched desire, unslaked need
as I yearn for thee.

Gasping awake from unrequited dreams,
floundering amid amative aches,
cogitating on your pellucid gaze,
wondering what you need.

Blot out the whole emerging gesture
To demonstrate leading astray thy pace;
Don't rebound to toil and wrestle,
Be temperate tilt not at any rate!

Outrun ne'er surpass in celebrity quartan,
Submission ties settle better productive gain;
Prepare to ignite flame of fixed canon
Must evade excruciate feeble in vain;

Riches give delight yet defend not,
Slaking thirst aqua less attract rabies;
Pride of sagacity weak riot crazy spot,
Mere contentment if alive relay miseries;

Deny not troth behave alike recuperation
Spurt what ambition turn amative thee;
Man! thou hold energy to alter cultivation
Please the almighty by culminating blemish free;

Only provident would give certain dexterity
With vigour, venture, assume design marvelous;
Where its sacred light confirm privity:
Personality seems observing rare not fabulous.

Smoke scintillated by ***** lights
Scent of cheap beer and cigarettes
Arms and legs and heads and butts
                mashed
      mangled
            mingling

In a space ejecting bravado
responding to the auricular bludgeons
plucking veins and boiling blood
arms and legs flailing like spiders
hammered by raindrops

Calloused voices scream through feedback
eking out of anguished amplifiers
while jungle drums synchronize hearts
to their frantic pulse

New friends old friends celebration
in sweaty embraces chanting screaming
stumbling outside the gates of eternity
sidewalk where we gathered round the sordid soapbox
and cast beleaguering gargantuan buildings
and endless cataclysmal streets
into abeyance

to prance along these old sidewalk cracks
stumbling along cigarette butts and beer cans
efflorescing under amative neon lights whose bombinate glow
tingles our skin and dazzles our eyeballs
rolling back into our skulls in the wake of ecstasy
billowing over our ambulant bodies

Friday nights
     Saturday nights
              Sunday nights
skipping school on a week day
braving city night life to find us in the nooks
they forgot to sweep out
where trash collects and pretends
to be unwavering and implacable
for a moment

Til it's back on the streets we spill out upon like puke
like the beer sticking to checkerboard floors
and we float home on the feedback high singing in our ears to sleep
dreaming of these ecstasies as something perennial
in punk lover's dreams

Pure when we're filthy.

Thyself it was to heal a heart distress'd,
Thine eyes were on me fixed to blow the pain,
When thou didst fill it lovingly, still ravaged,
Did I redeem the night of loving rain.

Those amative stares I can't recall,
believe me, for I've found my best choice.
Unhurt, a glance upon thee I stole,
For my belle, indeed me, with her love cloys.

She hath the pleasure to love me well enough,
Or a world of love she fostereth in her heart
For me; thou gavest of thine the gentlest bluff,
By playing with me with no fault on my part.

Thou cling'st to sheer agony day by day,
While seest my heart to her I gave away.

I cradled the unfurling shed snakeskin delicately
admiring the imprint of faces and places
swallowed up in time.

An ancient amative light sat patiently
on the blank sheet
before the electric medium;
the electric medium sitting buzzing
eager to tell another silent story.

I wrapped the skin around its spindle;
and from its den I extracted slowly and cautiously,
urging the skin into the hungry buzzing medium--

And minute punctures in the skin,
where the projector's teeth sink in,
whose teeth chatter like plastic wind up dentures
as the skin passes snake-like through its dusty plastic entrails.

The tattooed skin is illuminated at the heart of the vessel--
where the countenance of a single solitary bulb
omits a radiance, brilliant and magnificent--
powerful enough to cast the skin like a shooting star
across the darkened room

onto the patient white sheet
where my eyes await the tattooed memories
to dance before me.

I sit in my torn and weathered leather chair
echoing the silence of the screen--
(hypnotized by the hum of the projector--
an incessant electrical drone accompanied by the bombinate
incantations of chattering crickets.)

The stories are shielded from my inquisition
by layers of translucent grain
that leave textures gritty--
and a soft focus that leaves faces obscure
and expressions ambiguous.

(How clever you are to stay silent,
and leave me in such tempestuous musings!)

Vast pores pop up excitedly burned and scabbed intrusions
and if you linger for too long
the brilliance of the glare will burn into you--

Like the shaman who dances too close to the holy fire.
Like Apollo flying too close to the sun.

I must be careful,
and fully aware--
of your transience.

These ambulant hieroglyphs
speak volumes in their silence--
and I find myself drawn
to the blurry smiling faces
as they peer into my soul.

History breathes.
and History repeats.
but lies silent
in the sands of Time.
Becoming muddled,
but waiting.
for its story to be told;
for the mediums to rise from the grave.

I suddenly agnize myself as the last generation
to have its memories and histories burned onto tape.
and as I sit here I wonder
of the Society
whose soul I will peer into--
when I am unearthed
out of the sands of Time.

drifting, drifting
half fearful, half willing
instead I fall into

something empyreal

​I fall into you

your arms constrict
you hold me still, planting amative kisses on the once reluctant bambino
baby unfurls at once, letting out little sounds of
almost
venery

almost venery
almost venery

sunlight filters in through the little slit at the bottom of the blinds

as I am lit by my own alpenglow, a little by the ****, a little by the scapulae

why do these phantom pains only become pains as soon as somnolence breaks?
I keep this in my heart.

I see.
A little box of poems and
Letters that I never sent
To those I wished to be recipients
I recall having written out tokens
Of many and various emotions.
Mainly love and similar concepts
But from the opposite end of that spectrum
Poetry from my bouts with depression.

A Little box of poems written by a
Young and not quite wise poet
Who only wrote when truly
Impassioned to express
His ideas and emotions
That were either romantic
Or intensely amative.

A Little box of letters
That were quite emotive.
That put into words my ocean
Hidden deep within.
That remind me of the fetters
That laid heavy on my heart
Set by unrequited love and
The following scars.

I see.
A Little box of me.