"earlobe" poems
Time apart makes all things
New - a nervousness
An excitement
Needy and naive
The memory of your touch
Fades - but not the intensity
Of my love
Checking like clockwork
The departures and arrivals
Heart thumping
My poor vision
A true handicap
Scanning the masses
For the most familiar face
In the world
Of whom I know
The span between my thumb and index
Is the same as your chin to earlobe
And my finger could trace the shape of your lips
From memory alone.
When my eyes
Settle upon your face
My hard heart beat
Hits slow motion
And stops -
Everything runs through my mind
But I think nothing at all
Reach out.
Kiss.
Jun 21, 2011
Jun 21, 2011 at 6:25 PM UTC
Mozart,
deaf,
died, eventually.
Picasso, pervert, died; Whitney, Winehouse, drugs, dead; Elvis, Methamphetamine, died
(on the toilet).
Van Gogh,
missing an earlobe,
died.
Plath,
head in an oven,
in front of her kids,
Woolf
Patron saint of insanity, I guess
waded into a river and-
River. River Phoenix. Drugs.
Natalie Merchant wrote that song about him in 1995.
Flash forward.
Me, twenty-one, drunk.
Proprietor of a collection of lackluster poems.
Sold their small, nonbinary soul to the Devil
in exchange for a fortune,
gone.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
Last night, I was exploring sensuality
********* an inkling at the basis of reality
Nibbling the earlobe of the next global catastrophe
Can you smell the Earth as she moans in total ecstasy?
The Universe reciprocates and ******* a galaxy
We're all in this together
And not inconsequentially
Apr 14, 2021
Apr 14, 2021 at 1:31 PM UTC
There’s a god in this space computer
There’s a person in this space cocoon
There’s a spirit in red defeating the holy
There’s a trio of sailors flying past the moon
There’s a left-handed man drifting in a probe
There’s an astronaut gliding in an earlobe
There’s a malfunctioned leader stuck on Mars
There’s a determined machinist amidst the stars
There’s a sacred yellow Judas in the jaws of life
There’s a bloated bellow shooting from the tree of strife
There’s a solitary soldier among the aliens
There’s a black slab of faith between here and then
There’s an eight-pointed star of architectural riddles
There’s a cow, a spoon, a dog and a fiddle
There’s a god at number two, a bird at number three
And there’s always Jupiter to seem higher than thee
There’s an eye full of molecules
There’s an eye full of stars
There’s a blind man full of loneliness
There’s an empty void at large
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 9:06 PM UTC
You were in a Donatella Versaci masterpiece
I was in a Bottega Veneta custom
Diana Krall was in the stereo
Lemon lobster baking in the oven
And you and I
You and I were slow dancing like eighth graders
In the living room
With the coffee table pushed to the wall
And the T.V. cabinet cupboard shut
So we could have a little more room for our evening waltz
I guess that's what I get
For watching a romantic comedy and the Emmy's
On the same night
And even though that dream may be twenty years from ever coming true,
Because both you and I were in our forties
Trying to impress each other with how interesting
We could keep our relationship
Even though we both knew all we had to do
Was wake up in the morning and smile at each other
To fall in love again,
It was worth it because in that dream
I could actually dance
And the lobster was amazing
Say what you will
I have very sensory dreams
And things feel, taste, and smell like they do in real life
And it may have had something to do
With how beautiful you looked in that dress
Or the scent you were wearing
But that lobster was amazing
And your hands on my shoulders
Was a massage you weren't giving
As we two stepped through the room
And my lips mouthing every line
That danced through the air
Directly onto you earlobe
Was just an excuse for my cheek to touch yours
And as Veneta and Versace got comfortable on the floor
And my sensory dreams turned into a little bit more
My fleeting thoughts were of your smile in the morning
And I know you don't see yourself there yet
Taking pleasure in slow dancing
And waking up next to each other
But I see myself there just as clear
As I see myself right here
And I'll to drop the Veneta for jeans
Your Versace for pajamas
Lobster for KFC
If I'm slow dancing with you to Diana Krall in our living room
I don't give a **** if
We own the coffee table to push out of the way
I want to spend my life with you
I want to spend my life slow dancing with you
I want to spend my life whisper-humming
Standards into your ear slow dancing
In the living room of our house with you
Duplex with you
Apartment with you
Trailer with you
I don't care
I want to spend my life slow dancing with you
I want to spend my life with you
And I'm not being too sweet
I'm being too honest
And I know grand romantic gestures aren't your thing
Girl, flowers on Valentine's Day aren't your thing
But I hope someday soon you make a hobby out of slow dancing
Because I had a dream last night
I'd love to come true
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 10:19 AM UTC
the night of the fake dead has become eternal
(i will wear Susan Lucci's face for it)
staggering through excesses unknown
and the uncertainty of this ranking system,
you tried to eat my earlobe
but lost interest in it quickly.
your scent safe in this butterfly net,
i am surrounded by the
murderous howls of your perennial
buttercups, determined to tempt
my animal ******* instincts.
(enuma elish la nabu shamamu)
(shapiltu ammatum shuma la zakrat)
i have tripped in the garden of Eve's desire
and felt torrents across my cheeks
of alternating salt and sugar-sweet nectar.
i have held the red locks of wort
and danced on the blossom-littered ground
in remembrance of wandered attention.
(When in the heights heaven had not been named)
(and below, firm ground had not been called...)
i have wept in the shadow of Adam's twin towers
and seen the rift between the continents
ebb and fall under silence's blanket.
i have leathered my skin under this star
to defend my eyes and tongue from
the bite of the turtle goddess.
i have seen the feast of the water,
devouring the naked soil of Pangea,
and tasted its salt with my eyes.
i have undertaken the toil of the shaduf,
churning mud and planting seeds for
the return of the floral messiah.
(Amaru baur rata)
(Shagane Ir Imshi)
i have borne the yoke of the oxen
and reaped stalks of wheat
in the summer's first harvest
i have broken bread with companions
under starlight mixed embers
glowing log light orange dynamo
(The Flood swept thereover)
(His heart was filled with tears)
Will you scream for me?
Can you profess the holiness
of my mission?
My name, my motif, echoes
across the ages...
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
In the end we are called upon by
stronger forces, blank expressions, glassy eyes
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
the cold of the world's knife,
pressed against the flesh of our selves,
unconscious rhythm heartbeat pounding
twisted sense rhumba of a thousand tiny shards
Siaynoq!
Call me to a greater purpose
Siaynoq!
Spill my blood across the sand
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
Women are so beautiful
take a woman down to her skin
and you can trace the lines of her back
like tracing the curves of silken cloth
every dimple
every curve
the crease of the neck
the elegance of the shoulder blades
the rolling divot of the spinal cord
the curve of her sides
the dimples at the bottom of her spine
her hips
that dint that curves around to her inner thighs
her thighs
her knees
her ankles
the feeling of pressing your naked body up to her naked body
your hands on her hips
your palms in her dimples
your chest on her back
chin in her collar
fingers in her pelvic crease
your lips on her neck
her **** fit into your pelvis
your tongue at her jaw line
hands in between her thighs
teeth pulling at her earlobe
fingers on her ****
her *** on your fingers
your leg wrapped around hers
your hand tracing her outline
like rolling hills
soft
and smooth
she's so beautiful
and it's all so perfect
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
I find comfort in the static of the record player humming,
the crackling of vinyl against its holding
your arms tucked tight around the curve of my spine
and waking up to the corners of your lips widening
this is a sunday morning
that I could relive
7 days a week
this is a feeling
I am near terrified of
but in a way that I need to be
see,
I have never been one for writing love poems
and when it comes to writing love
good endings aren't my specialty
I'm not one for spilling vulnerability
to then have to clean up the mess
after it goes without catching
I'm not the best at predicting future
and letting go
is an art form I am still mastering
I have never been one for writing love poems
especially not for those
who don't stick around
long enough to hear them
but for you
I am willing
to take the risk
to set aside hesitation
for the chance of lasting
to sacrifice my fear of heights
for the possibility of a smooth landing
I don't know you well
but I know you enough
to know you're exactly what I want
so I'll talk about your smile
how your dimples have quickly become
my favorite half moon to stare at
or the way you look at me
like a single star
in the middle of a busy Los Angeles sky
being enfolded in your grasp
feels like sun peeking through grey
how lightness makes itself known
even in the midst of rain
I want my skin
to find a home in your palms
and my laugh
an echo in the crook of your neck
for routine
to settle on the map of your body
from collarbone to knuckle to wrist
making a transparent dent in each earlobe
to be missed by my lips
to crave the caress of my hands
when they have other obligations
and I'll hope
that I can waste
as much time with you
as I intend to
although I'm sure
that any time we spent together
would be anything but wasted
I hope
that we can stretch these two nights into two hundred
weaving a weekend into something we can wrap ourselves in
this is me saying a prayer
the only way I know how to
I have never been one for writing love poems
but for you
it is all I want to do
to listen to the silence
and from it
form a symphony
to take this coincidence
and call it fate
to give out all of my honesty
and hope that you stay
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
The ear is an amazing tool. Subtle invitation,
subtle beauty, and the jewelry that decorates it!
I saw your ears before the gauges, and even then
they were small, delicate, and open to me.
If I could be any object, knowing what little purpose
I would serve, I would be the decorations, hanging,
from your earlobe: I would be satisfied being worn
on your body, your bright body, your beautiful face
sparkling from the lights you liked to daydream in,
placed near the delicate halls you’d always embraced me in.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
“Sir, this mole seems to be growing and spreading”
Suhail stopped the scissor and comb, and said
“It’s a bit grown than last month and even then, I noticed it spreading”
Suhail is my hair stylist for the last about six years
I have seen him growing from a Hair Analyst to Specialist to Senior Hair Specialist
There is something more than the generous tip that connects us
May be my willingness to abide by his experiments with my hair
Or reciprocation of loyalty that bound us every month
Surprised, I asked him, “What mole are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know the black mole on the back side of your left ear” puzzled Suhail
“You go and check with Madam, may be its my feeling only”
“How would madam know about it Suhail, she doesn’t cut my hair!”
“Arre Sir, you too!” Suhail had a vicious smile on his face
“Come on tell me” I prodded him with the same viciousness
We got into wayward pastime …
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When you lay down on her lap in those afternoons
And she combs your hair with her fingers
And when you fall into that muddle of sleepiness and excitement
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When she comes from the back as on paws of a cat
Hugs and hold you tight with her hands
And press her face on your shoulder
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When those drenched lips move away from your lips
And the craving teeth leave a hickey on that earlobe,
Her eyes would lock it”
Suhail finished the haircut and I left tipping him as usual
The drive back home searched through the labyrinths of memories
Of caressing fingers, tight hugs and hickeys
Why didn’t she mention that mole, ever?
“Honey, you never told about that Mole,
Come on, let me see and let’s go to a Dermatologist quickly
We can’t take these things lightly; the doctor may even suggest a biopsy
Biopsy is fully covered in your mediclaim, isn’t it?”
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
Whispers and tangled limbs have never felt this electric.
You pull me in, and I feel your lips brushing my earlobe
I tell you I know what you're going to say,
expecting the same joke you usually make
You ask me if I'm positive I know what you're going to say
I assure you I am, and feel your arm wrap around my shoulder,
letting your warmth envelope me
Then I feel the unexpected words
Slip from your lips and collide with my emotions
Brushing against my ear in harmony with your lips
"I'm not sure you realize how beautiful you really are."
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
Two Hearts But A Single Beat.
I lied there waiting and excited.
One hand softly griping your left thigh.
Faster. Harder. Pacing.
I ponder for a moment while I let your warm breath exhale against my earlobe.
“I live for this“.
I love to hear you moan against my head. Tounges’ wrapped within a mess of lips, breaths, and saliva.
I know this feeling all too well. This addiction that I can’t abstain from. You don’t understand me. It’s hard. When I’m close to you my head becomes a jungle. Your presence is enough to drive me wild. I’m ****** You’ve driven me mad with lust and love combined in one. I’m throbbing. I want you so bad and you have yet to know my true nature towards you...
You’re already mine, but I’ve been dying to make you mine in a different way. I’m going to ruin you ... make crawl back tongue drooling for more.
My lust cannot contain itself.
I want to bend you over a whisper taunting things into your ear while I slide two fingers in the back and grip my hand around your shaft.... slowly making you ooze *** from the tip... I want you to ******* beg. Tell me how bad you want it, want this, want me... pant in my ear until there’s nothing but broken cries left. Push me away even though you know it’s what you ******* crave the most .. let me explore your darkest parts and lick every crevice. I want you to the point where it’s only our sweaty bodies against each other yearning for another lick, taste, spread, touch.... **** your addicting. This may very well be my downfall.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
The pierce on his left earlobe wasn't something that anyone would just notice. After all it was purposely concealed by his brown locks. She asked him why he had it.
"It was a thing of the past." he said.
"Does it still hurts?"
"The bleeding had stopped. The wound was long gone. It took some time to heal. Still, there was a gaping hole that's left."
Somehow she knew that it wasn't just the piercing he was talking about.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
Sometimes the feeling of loneliness becomes so tangible that the void seems to swallow you from the inside out, emanating from the stomach and reaching out, engulfing the body like a fist closing around a tumbler of whiskey.
This void takes on a weight; light at first, bearable. The tumbler of whiskey with a resting hand around it. Then the fist begins to close so forcefully and the cylindrical glass of the tumbler has no choice but to shatter from it. The glass shards scatter and the whiskey flows and the fist still keeps closing. Always closing. Never resting.
Never resting.
Sometimes when I miss you, when I feel like a tumbler of whiskey enclosed in your fist, I imagine your voice inside my head singing along to your favourite song. I imagine your arms around me, your hand spreading warmth up my thigh, your tongue dancing along my collarbones, up my neck, and tracing the bottom of my earlobe. I am not beautiful but your mouth has me almost convinced that I could be.
Sometimes when your arms are around me, I feel like that tumbler of whiskey encased in a fist. When you kiss me, I feel myself shatter and I feel the whiskey run. But it's not whiskey, it's love. It pours out of me whenever you sing the wrong lyrics to your favourite song.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
i'm 9 in nairobi
playing foosball with a masai man
whose lip and earlobe
(both well-stretched)
bounce against his face,
he hangs lip over nose,
ears over ears,
we play on
funny, those kinds of scars
began with young women,
east african, who
fearing ****
and kidnap
from the north,
cut holes
in lip, in earlobe,
lifted skin of stomach
to slice smooth turtleshell shapes,
rubbed camel dung in wounds for better
scars,
which meant:
resistance, meant:
freedom, meant:
don't take me away,
don't steal my life.
funny
those scars
mean beauty now.
funny, these scars
on my wrist, funny how
much i love life now.
funny scars
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
He whispers sweet nothings into my ear
His quiet musings that lull me to sleep
His teeth gently graze my earlobe, pulling at my earring
He's almost like a raven, always fixating on the shiny parts of me
Except instead of repeating never more, he screams forever from the rooftops
He's taught me how to fly
How to leave the ground
How to soar above the earth, into the clouds
He's given me hope and serenity and peace
And for this I will forever be grateful
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
Yes, kiss my neck.
No, don't go back to my lips.
Give me more of your warm, wet air against my goosebump covered neck.
Bury your face into me.
More!
let me show you
just how much.
Yes!
right at the base of my neck where it meets my chest
Don't be shy,
I don't care if the world can see this tomorrow.
Actually, bruise me,
make sure
they all can see
it feels so
much better with that
assertion.
I don't need to see anymore, just let me relish the bright blindness of eyes shut tight
I'll figure you out with my hands.
Yes! press your tongue against me in that seal you made with your lips.
And yes, the only time I want you to stop laying those kisses is for
an audible breath.
Better yet a small moan
when my hands slide under your rough denim and past your soft jagged ridges of lace,
a strong grip and squeeze of your ***
That's it..
Now you're setting me off.
Yes, I want flesh on flesh.
No, I'm done with this hesitation
and your shirt.
I don't need mine either.
Actually, you can stop making my blood rush
through my neck.
Better only be for a moment though
while our hands grasp
for whatever part of our shirts to pull them off.
Yes, crawl further up me
let me feel your heating skin
against my blood boiled body.
No, don't just crawl-
straddle me
like this.
Actually, that sly lick against my earlobe made me groan.
Better yet
move your hips like- yes! just like that.
And Yes, we're still wearing too many clothes.
And yes, exactly, fix that problem.
No! I'm not done with those lips quite yet.
Exactly. That's the spot and don't you stop.
Actually-no-yes!-what was I saying?
Oh- that's right,
better yet,
turn around-but don't let go of me with your tongue and kiss-
my tongue also wants a taste. Y-yes..!
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
Extraordinary eggs eat elephants' empanadas
exact erasers enlist every eagle
earlobe extract exit each elf entrance
Evil envelopes e-mail England
Easy eccentrics etcetera etcetera
exiting end!
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 4:16 PM UTC
"I kissed a feminist once",
he says, face flushed blotchy, something heavy resting on his shoulders
maybe
“I kissed a feminist once,”
and everybody laughs
“she was cold as ice,” he says
and he doesn’t mention how I turned
warm beneath his fingers,
heated up like embers
and reduced his bed to flame and ashes
“God was she mean,” he says
but he hasn’t forgotten the time
I told him to be kind to himself, to
purge the poison from his veins and
scrape the smoke from his lungs
“I love you I love you I love you”
I said,
“please love yourself too”
“I kissed a feminist once,”
he says, to loud guffaws,
an elbow in his side
and he doesn’t say “her lips
were the softest thing to ever brush
my collar bone”
he doesn’t say “she made playlists in my mind”
or “she covered me like a blanket”
or “her teeth on my earlobe ripped me open and scattered me across the sheets of her twin bed”
he doesn’t say “I loved that
storm of a girl,
I loved her heavy at 4am I loved
her like pennies
at the bottom of a fountain
like memorized freckles
I loved her like depth perception
like opposable thumbs
I loved her I loved her I loved her”
and instead he shrugs
that heavy thing off his shoulders
and shrugs the feel of my lips
off his chest and he says,
“she was a crazy ***** anyway”
- Lily Cigale
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
Weaken by the breeze
he settles like the grumbling of burning embers,
he dreads the color gray.
A freckle in the upper right of his earlobe,
he sighs so close to a cry, for minute in the ice of morning
he holds on to his ears,
to keep what he heard inside as if the
dying flutters of a butterfly.
Today he hides inside,
inside deep pockets rattling with the lost things he found,
faster and faster he walks across
the streets as if it would get him closer
closer to himself, as if late for a bad day,
he goes no where but feels with each step the pain
in the soles of his feet.
*The pain makes the day real,
the pain makes the day real*
the steep hills mimic the thought sky of his heart and how his
mind struggles not to fall backwards but to reach the top.
He never does but instead he spins burning in circles.
The day isn't real anymore, he walks faster.
*The pain makes the day real
The pain makes the day real
The pain makes him real.*
He dreads the gray, the color pervades today.
weaken by the breeze
he circles again returning to where he began
In his mind he counts the shavings of wings
He fell back and his heart closed up the shop early.
In his mind the stone cease to be cast out, cease to ripple
yet the residual still echo faintly, as his ears burn.
*The pain makes the day real.
The pain makes the day real
The pain makes him real*
Weaken by the breeze
he settles like the grumbling of burning embers,
he dreads the color gray.
A freckle in the upper right of his earlobe,
he sighs so close to a cry, for minute in the ice of morning
he holds on to his ears,
to keep what he heard inside as if the
dying flutters of a butterfly.
Today he hides inside,
inside deep pockets rattling with the lost things he found,
faster and faster he walks across
the streets as if it would get him closer
closer to himself, as if late for a bad day,
he goes no where but feels with each step the pain
in the soles of his feet.
*The pain makes the day real,
the pain makes the day real*
the steep hills mimic the thought sky of his heart and how his
mind struggles not to fall backwards but to reach the top.
He never does but instead he spins burning in circles.
The day isn't real anymore, he walks faster.
*The pain makes the day real
The pain makes the day real
The pain makes him real.*
He dreads the gray, the color pervades today.
weaken by the breeze
he circles again returning to where he began
In his mind he counts the shavings of wings
He fell back and his heart closed up the shop early.
In his mind the stone cease to be cast out, cease to ripple
yet the residual still echo faintly, as his ears burn.
*The pain makes the day real.
The real makes the day feel.
The pain makes the day real*
The lost cry of a male butterfly..
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
Moldy mutterings-
A char-broiled doomsday
Licks the salted air, no condensation in clouds
Dry and cracked.
Elephant stomp
Pounded ground where
Lizard-scaled turnip roots drip
Into dirt, drooping low and quick.
That senseless racket, the incessant buzzing
Yellowed a crusted earlobe
The cauliflower cult.
Chipped to smithereens
As the sun split
In sizzling heat.
No porcelain skin to drizzle
Tender sweat beads
Blackened back-burner.
Conquest of detention to
Contain lackluster irrelevant lessons
Blessed with a dead hand
Crumpled flesh stump.
Hunched Trapezius circle person
Cowering in familiar corners.
Glisten as an oyster's ravaged shell,
Sour cream pearl dangling between your *******
Twinkling Adam's apple
This speech could sink its teeth in.
Spurting eloquence
Gushed up word juice.
Swallow hard and whole
Choke on the knowing.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
It's been a time and a half
And I finally understand
The reason you've gone
With the shaman so long.
The spirit is free.
I'm a color
Splintered in three.
Crystalline
Crystal eyes
Well spoken with diction.
Many a words I've spoken
Have been in ode
Romancing you with every breath
In the desert
The door is ajar
We trace the steps of Aztec gods
1/3 becomes 2/4
The sands gleam emerald
Our bodies elongate to equine form
We blended the horizon line
Quetzalcoatl stands before me
Serpent in feathers
Glows like the spectrum all together.
He hands me a seed.
And his
Eyes smother like lightning.
And I
Speak in codexed volition.
And we
Blur the horizon line once more.
I stand on the Pacific
20,000 leagues
Equine force
Carries me to the beach.
Sand once more.
I feel a twitch in my jaw.
Each hand holds a mandible
And pulls.
Roots emerge
And a tree not soon after.
Is this what the seed was for?
I trot the beach,
Jaw no longer in tact.
My pallor flesh caked in coagulate
Almost recreates my tan skin
A gift from the god.
I've been on this beach for miles,
And
Miles
And
Two whiles.
My architecture meanders
The brevity of sanity.
One eye sees black,
The other sees fine.
My hair has become matted
It knots behind each earlobe
And drags on below my knees.
Is this what Quetzalcoatl wanted?
To see me sifted with the grains of sand
In the palm of a child's hand
At the beach
While on vacation
With mom and dad?
20,000 years have passed.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
It creeps in through the windows
and through the vents. Through the eyes,
and through the tongues, and through
the ears, perhaps, but always
through the eyes and always the tongues.
It creeps in through the words and
the mouths they arise from,
—always in whisper,
right below the earlobe,
with warm, tickled breath—
It creeps in through you and the
death is cruel and the death is
fair and the death is always eternal.
The death is cold and it is calculated
but it is always full of passion,
pulsing in the veins till the very moment
the heart comes to a stop.
It is love in the bathroom stalls.
It is love in the beat-down bars where the
beat-down people drink their lukewarm beer.
It is love in the truck bed on the side of
some unnamed, midnight mile down I-95.
It is love in the worst way.
It creeps in and it kills you,
and it kills you, and it kills you.
Each death a little different, but
death all the same.
In the morning there she is.
She’s making coffee, or in the shower,
or headed to work.
You’re looking for your pants,
or your shirt, or your wallet,
perhaps some combination of the three,
The whole time wondering
how the hell you’ll ever make it
out of this alive.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
*ink of sky inhabits her eyes
essence of serenity almondine
so spanish in silvern adornment
though her soul is hafnium pierced
a haven for both life and death
embodiment of artistic expression
openly hooded in earlobe spirituality
nominally patrician by disposition
my source stirs in futile disarray
kindred energy infusing the moment
a tree appears on a barren landscape
devoid of foliage, vivaciously rooting*
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC