Candid smiles radiate waves of happiness,
And the promise of foreboding tenderness.

Pupils dilate at the sight of chaste skin
Your body position enumerates control, we’re ready to begin.

Vibrant red rose petals sprinkled on expensive white lace
As I lay pressed against you, I hear your strong heart race.

Your eyes undress me, while your mouth seems to grasp for words unknown to individuals,
But known to every pair of souls entwined across the earth, who feel pure love, not strictly ******.

Scratch marks on your back, the air is heavy and intense.
We move together, our senses heightened, slowly building suspense.

Loud screams and moans, a lovely and true symphony of feelings, then we’re through.
You lay back down, your breathing is rapid, I climb in your arms and kiss you.

Love is a verb, a doing word,
Love conquers all, undeterred.

In speech it seems forever right is wrong
The grammar love must use enumerates
What sadly grows but smaller while so strong
And failure reigns that none articulate

For words that do oft fuel hot debate
Are ever left from matters of the heart
And if the heart does mirror soul and fate
No passion has the lexicon of art

But look on past the void and back to start
To endless want for passion to express
And find my sullen weary face apart
For I instead the earnest do impress

If there are countless words but in my mind
Would long, for you, that speech romance refines

I've never seen so much hate
Than in my mother's two eyes
At the sound of my father's voice

I've never seen so much pain in his cracked and chapped smile
Than when my mother
Screams him worthless

I've never seen so much self-disgust  
Than in my young brother's eyelids
When my mother deems him a disappointment  

I've never held so much anger
In my one beating heart
Than when my mother enumerates her burdens

Something stirs inside its bed
That will not leave its words unsaid
Something from between the shadows
Something ancient, it's in my head
And it's asking me to let it live.

At first, it's just a tickle
But when it's at first ignored,
It soon begins to roar,
Demanding its presence be known
Demanding its right to be heard
And, as a seed, its right to be sown


Inside my head, it churns
And in my heart, it burns
And so it is I know
That I must think this one over:
I must let the ancient creature have its say.

While it enumerates itself to me,
I weigh its features carefully:
How clever is it?
Clever enough, I suppose.
Is it insightful?
Not terribly, but
I don't think this one needs to be.
Realistically, how useful would it be?
Well, it seems that,
Certainly, it could get the job done.

With the verdict now at hand,
It's obvious what must be done.
I must let the ancient thing free,
Though, admittedly,
I'm not sure it'll be too much fun.
But then again, of course,
Fun can't ALWAYS be the top priority.
So, as a farmer in his field,
Working hard to plant the seeds,
I set myself about my task,
Difficult though it's sure to be.

And as I help the ancient thing,
Working hard to become
What it was always meant to be,
I have to wonder
If, when all is said and done,
And this newborn idea has become reality,
I wonder if it's too much to hope
That, because of it,
And so, in part, because of me
Is it too much to hope that we,
That I and this ancient creature,
This new idea that I've unleashed,
Is it too much to hope
That we might bring the world a tiny bit of beauty?

Grabbing for rocks in indigo waters, searchlights gleaming against the waters illuminating darkness, illuminating those depths.

The center of an explosion, a heatwave ****** into a sink drain, evaporated, muscles relaxed and honeysucklesweet liquid deep in the veins, sharp crystals forming in lungs and a hard breath, cold condensation; exhale and release.

I am, she is, we are
In spheres of consciousness, orbiting the dark side of the moon
waiting for death by a bus stop.

Lazy whiskey sky balancing on telephone wires, slipping, stagnant then pulsing for life, for air, for peace. There is nothing as clean cut as a saturday morning in September. Nothing as urgent as a windswept pane of glass, cut sharply by the salt of the shoreline.

An old woman enumerates; this is addiction, this is addiction, and she’s blown away in the wind of yesterday. This is the new age of sycophants and petulant masters; it lacks heart! It lacks love. It is cold like concrete, like a highway stop halfway to midnight, pulsing and cimmerian. Vitriolic stillness, stinging remains beneath penetrated skin, releasing passion with every exhale.

Climbing through a toilet drain, stopping to gasp and pushing on through biting cold, realizing the world is not as you remember it. Crawl into the sanctum, collapse for forgiveness, repeat.

For this is it, the eternal sprint.

Winter's coming did you feel
it this morning
walking
there is

DEADDEADDEAD

everywhere

leaves which

(did you)

crunching between

hoofandroot

the mouth
and which
enumerates the light

bending
unbent
fleckless strands
of sunlight

rich in mote
and flaring
about which
the coalesced

atom of LIFE
hangs
(hung
           )

ever so
and briefly which
we all are
but

just a

rich mote

hanging
in a beam