"handlebar" poems
he tickled me with love
i imagine
behind his merciless
IBM grin
sadistic chuckle
my grandfather loved me
built me a swing
a wooden airplane
gave me a bicycle
a cape to wear
he taught me pong and pitfall
wielding a brush-broom
handlebar-moustache
a favorite game of his was giving raspberries
testing limits
his iron fingers
wringing squeals of laughter sour
under breathless ribs
tear-eyed begging fits
his old white t-shirt
too small to hide his plump
hairy belly,
i'd tickled him there once
poked him where my cousins pointed
giggling
when the kick came
i felt it in the heart
more than the back of my knee
bent from the sudden
sneering force
when i asked him
years later
for a book from his dying bookshelf
he joked with a growl
the last emphysemic sentence i remember
he said to me
you gonna bring it back when you're done?
i remember
the rules of the tickle game
and love him back
for his sarcasm
firecrack generosity
.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
The peacocks were behind wire
the sun warm
cloudless sky
and Monica had ridden
beside you on her bike
knowing her brothers
were out with the older brother
you not knowing had gone
to the farm house
to meet them
o they’re out
their mother said
didn’t they tell you?
no they‘d not
you walked to your bike
and got on
where you going?
Monica asked
don’t know now
you replied
I can ride with you
wherever you decide
she said
her mother
hands on hips said
don’t go bothering Benedict
he doesn’t want no girl
hanging on his tails
he don’t mind
Monica said
looking at you
her big eyes pleading
don’t mind if she comes
you said
giving the mother
a smile
if you’re sure
she said
and walked back
toward the farmhouse
her backside moving
side to side
in her flowery dress
and you watched
until she had gone
sure you don’t mind
me coming?
no I don’t mind
you said
where we going then?
the peacocks again
o I like them
she said
climbing her bike
foot on the pedal
ready for the push off
her sandals open toed
bare feet
the off white skirt
contrasted
with the mauve top
her hair dragged
into a bow
at the back
ready?
sure am
and you rode off
along the track
from the farmhouse
into the lane
between trees
and hedgerows
she followed at your side
keeping up
her eyes seeming
on fire
her hands gripping
the handlebar
white and pink
and the small fingers
holding on for dear life
her legs up and down
pedalling
you felt the wind
in your hair
through the open neck
of your white shirt
pushing down
the jean covered legs
up and down
the lane narrowed
then widened
there they are
she called
the peacocks
she dismounted
and laid her bike
against a tree
and ran to the wire fence
and peered through
you put your bike
by the hedge
and walked over
to where she stood peering
her eyes bright
and fiery
how comes the *****
are bright and colourful
but the hens are so dull?
she asked
that’s how it is
in the bird world
you said
hens are just dull
I’m not dull
she said
holding the wire
with her fingers
making noises
at the birds
am I?
she said
looking at you
beside her
no you’re not
you said
nothing dull
about you at all
I’m like a peacock
she said
bright and beautiful
aren’t I?
sure you are
you said
you peered
at the strutting peacock
nearest the wire
out of the corner
of your eye
you saw Monica
nose inches
from the wire
call to the bird
her lips pursed
and opening
and closing
her arms soft
and reaching up
I’m a peacock bird
she said
her arms in motion
like wings
her hands flopping
above her head
her feet in dance
stepping
and dancing in turn
you watched her dance
and twirl
Jim and Pete’s sister
the peacock girl.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
The men shout at me as they drive by
****** walk like a man!”
They hoot, shout, and laugh
As sunlight blinds their white-trash getaway.
I look around and think
How ridiculous to be unable to walk
How insane for me to think that these legs
Move on their own.
How silly for me, the queen that I am,
To think that my kingdom was
Any place I was welcome.
To be queer and visible
Is to challenge
The stained muscle shirts
“wife beaters,” strung across
Tattooed skin and handlebar
Mustaches of the “real men”
Whose siren calls
Police my step.
Most men hate us
The Children of Naomi Campbell
Men, YES MEN, too unafraid
To straighten our walk
Loosen our pant legs
And be invisible.
To be properly gay
Acceptably gay, to be
Tolerable is to be invisible
To hide, to be “real man”
My manhood is ghostly
Terrifying even
My walk so dangerous that
It is unsafe to even drive by
My community is still
Dangerous, unreal
Waiting for the next truck to drive by
To beat me, tie me to a fence and leave me
Like Matthew Shepard
A ghost on a fencepole
Unwanted, dangerous,
My people are a threat
Legs too long threatening the ability of
“real men” to have simple desires
They will do whatever it takes
To keep it easy.
Walk like a man, they yelled.
I yell back the names of my family:
Tiffany Edwards,
Zoraida Reyes, Kandy Hall
Yaz’min Shancez
Bodies that didn’t walk the right way
These ghosts were once threatening too.
Simply existing means threatening
"real men" and their women
Swinging my hips is literally deadly
To be flirtatious is to be threatening
To invite violence, attention
To get what I want, to be made a man
Real man, I am not real
As if my only job is to
Show others how to walk,
As if the rest of me
Is simply fake, fantasy, irrelevant
See how easily queer people
Are watered down to something unidimensional,
Something that is only a fragment of
“real” people – we are ghosts
Moving among you
Threatening, ******
Never just going to work
But always somehow
threatening, challenging
And forcing fantasies onto the world
Why do we always challenge
What is real? What is normal?
Why can’t a man strut? Why isn’t manhood
Something other than what swings with my
Legs?
Real. Ghostly. Fake. Invisible. Dangerous.
What I hear is *powerful, noted, interesting,
….maybe even desirable.* (GASP!)
When I walk now, I walk with an army of ghosts
Led by the fallen, queens, and divas
who threatened the men of the past.
I live their lessons and proudly
swish my hips in honor of my adopted
****** ancestors.
We Sashay however we want
Because we've realized that
a "real" men is always
Just a step away.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
The wheel spun, as the creaking
Of old rusted joints moved Upon
A
Tattered
Frame,
Its was with in the spinning
The voices sang
The wheel shall spin"
"Fates hand shall tell"
"For will the wheel move"
"Silent"
"Or"
"Sights bell"
I awoke startled, hearing the
Wheels turn, old spokes
Sounding with each rotation,
I looked upon the old bike
A ringing in my ears,
No wheels to move,
"Just an empty shell"
What made the noises
"I touch my head"
I feel blood, like tears falls to the ground
I am conscious and the spokes
Upon a crumpled wheel,
"Each spoke still spinning"
By the movement of the car wheel,
Each one takes
Hair
Skull
Brain,
My mind trying to shield me
From my fate, but the bell on the
Handlebar,
Bing
"BIng"
"BING"
Awoke me to my fate, a broken
Reflector shows what closed eyes
Did cloak, from me to see,
I scream,
A
Maddening
Scream,
As I lie crumpled a broken shell,
And this mirror
A front row image
Of my death in slow motion,
The wheel turns I hear the bell,
And with the final chime
The wheel turns but there is no one home,
To hear the bells ring and the wheel carries on..
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
people -- blue jeans -- t-shirts -- volleyball -- sparklers -- *** its -- stone bridge -- pine trees -- new trees -- old trees -- fireworks -- grass -- sonic boom -- picnic chairs -- bicycles -- oak trees -- bare neck -- tickles -- sneezing -- bless you -- slight chill -- cloud cover -- police cars -- policemen -- uniforms -- night sticks -- sweat pants -- baby strollers -- skull & crossbones -- muscle shirt -- sweat shirt -- baseball caps -- fountains of sparks -- greenery -- dandelions -- yellow weeds -- wafting smoke -- black man in white shirt -- white man in black shirt -- SUV -- Boxer dog -- red wagon -- smoke stacks -- asian couple -- running shorts -- acrid smoke -- ice cream truck -- double trees -- pony tail -- mosquitos -- fishing hat -- yellow truck -- handlebar mustache -- bad *** attitude -- shaved head -- balloon -- barbeque -- sunset -- affro -- tennis shoes -- multi-colored hair -- canoe -- golden purse -- playing band -- American flag -- folding chair -- name badge -- red, white, & blue -- skipping rocks -- cargo shorts -- matching couple -- bike path -- hippie hair -- low rider -- peace sign -- golden chains -- waning moon -- waxed legs -- hoodies -- striped shirt -- victory dance -- short shorts -- cigar smoke -- watermelon -- Viking's bag -- leopard skin jacket -- skooter -- digital camera -- creepy stalker dude -- tent building -- horeshoes -- personal space invaders -- glow sticks -- picnic basket -- cooler -- smoke bombs -- plaid skirt -- 77 sweats -- interracial couples -- motorcycle -- orange vest -- plastic ball -- face paint -- cops in two different uniforms -- split tree -- pregnant lady -- trash talking horeshoe player -- street lamps -- playing tag -- large blue cooler -- bright green pants -- humorless boy
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
Queue for a dance with
ink upon your wrist,
paper wrapped tight and
a waiting kiss.
Princes march to their kingdom come, on
their checkerboard, light board,
dance floor hum.
Princesses in timely masks
of nightmarish dreams
hide their real selves in
plain sight, with
handlebar hair
cut into wigs,
only hiding scalps of shame.
In head, in thought, I spoke 26 words,
7 points of punctuation and 6
saintly verbs:
*You left.
a dance too short,
touch of the ***
another ***** for the group,
feel of the ***
smile and forget,
forget she ever asked.*
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
God waited for Abraham's arm to be actually starting down, the biceps fully tensed.
Nothing short would do; in extremity, we learn what's true.
With a good job, a good marriage, a fine son, I had everything one could expect.
And yet there was a lingering dissatisfaction; a malaise.
It seemed, deep down, that I didn't really feel or believe in anything.
.........
On Saturday morning, August 11, 1990, my three-year-old son and I rounded the corner at the south end of the block where we live. We were out for a walk. (He had been born through in-vitro fertilization, everything else had failed -- including several previous in-vitro attempts.) He was riding his tricycle -- it's amazing how fast a three-year-old can go on a tricycle with big wheels. . . . The house next to the corner had tall bushes growing right out to the sidewalk. As we passed the house, my son speeded up. My attention was diverted to men working across the street trimming trees. Their chainsaws drowned out the sound of a car backing out of the driveway next to the house with the bushes. The car was moving slowly and I can see in the slowest of slow motion -- I screamed, but I'm not sure just when (there's no sound track to this movie) -- the car backing into the left handlebar of the tricycle, tilting it over to the right, my son breaking his fall with his right hand. (As low to the ground as he and the tricycle were, they could not be visible in the driver's rearview mirror at this point.) And, then, the car stopping. Did the car stop because of my scream? Or had the old man driving the car seen my son at the last second before he disappeared behind the car?
.......
I learned instantly with the terrible weight of that tire inches from my son's head, that I wanted with a giant, horrible wanting for this boy to grow up healthy and to have children of his own who would, in turn, have children of their own, and that having my wife hate me for losing him would be unbearable.
All the unfairnesses I had suffered in life -- ALL of them --
instantly became meaningless. Everything was clear.
This is what I wanted; this is what I believed.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
my body is a trash can
a dumping ground for mistakes
every day is a morning after
every day breeds saccharine aches
bruised lips and handlebar hips
a naked exposé of wrong
from tarpit lungs, through purple teeth
eerie hisses of my afflicted song
the poison flower blossoms only once
infernal fragrance of forgive-me-nots
no tide rinses the sins of night
at 1400 weeks this vessel rots
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 6:26 PM UTC
Can't decide what to play with today.
There are my colouring books and pencils.
I could also find my drawing pad
and use a ruler and some stencils.
I have my Legos and my cars,
and lots of other shiny toys,
but my mum sends me out
to join the other little boys.
It's a beautiful day, she says,
you should be in fresh air,
yet too young for school you are
no need to worry or even care.
I meet Timmy, my friend down the lane.
He shows me his bicycle with considerable pride.
It's new, he says, with bell, brakes and all.
I ask him if I could learn to ride.
Of course, he says, hop on and I'll push.
I follow his instructions - tightly grip the handlebar
and speed away without a plan of further action,
when along comes roaring an enormous motorcar.
Please make it stop, I scream. But Timmy is not there.
So just before the tragic but inevitable demise,
a miracle occurs, I wake up in bed safely,
all grown up and full of surprise.
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 3:33 AM UTC
With legs pumping like mad, eager to keep up
While his pedals went around very slow
He ambled along giving me exercise
"Would you like me to slow down a bit Joe?"
But I pedalled along with all of my might
And I was keeping up, at least I thought
But an L-driver outside the driving school
Opened his door and brought me up short.
Into the road I flew off my little red bike
But a hand grabbed me and halted my fall
I think it was the L-driver who caught me
He had a handlebar moustache I recall.
Well they all made a fuss about something
And to the hospital I was told I must go
But the thing was I'd lost sight of my father
They watched amazed as I shot off shouting "No!"
In a time like forever I found my father
He was sitting, looking back, one foot down
As I raced up and sat still behind him
His faced changed from smiling to a frown.
It seems that my face was all covered in blood
I was desperate to catch up I didn't realise
As he leapt off his bike and wrapped his arms round me
I said "Dad! Why are there tears in your eyes?"
The driver's door had caught me just under the eye
I'd a **** of some length underneath
Being just seven years old I didn't know why
Dad's tears were his show of relief.
©Joe Wilson - The little red bike... 2014
When I wrote this I was thinking about my Dad. He never cycled with me too much. He became ill soon after I was born and died when I was just twelve.
I loved him so very much.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
I was going to write a poem
about how I stood on the corner after
work, gripping a squishy handlebar with
my left hand and holding K’s flip phone
in the other.
My stomach flip-flopped across JFK blvd, down 20th street, and to that little alleyway where I stood alone for a while.
An old lady stared at me...
did I trigger a happy memory of her
youth,
or was she just smirking at the beads of
sweat on my forehead and disintegrating
soles of my ballet flats?
My black dress slouched over my body
like I was going to a funeral.
And even though my acro class was yesterday, I still felt upside down. There’s no way I could stay in a handstand that long, but I would’ve done it if it gave me a different explanation for why I was so sick.
Inside of me were those cropping rainbow scribbles that I used to make on Paint, you know, the ones that seemed like they could create a picture but ended up turning into shaking lines?
I could feel the lack of your presence, I could FEEL your not being there. As the minutes passed and I kept standing and waiting my face drooped and it was hard not to cry right there on the spot.
It was just past lunchtime but there was still a steady flow of businessmen filling the sidewalk.
They glanced at me but I just looked
away because they were my father's age
and gave me familiar half-smiles.
I said that I was going to write a poem because I didn't have enough energy to do anything but list words,
but I guess this just turned into a ******
one.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
I'm riding a bike through
The trees, handlebar gripped
As blossom floats
Frozen,
As I peddle through
This is like a
Mirage
Dream,
Sequence,
Can this be real as I
I hold my hands up,
Handle bar steady
Fingers,
Touch,
Caress,
The silk hanging in the air
Its like Christmas
But the snow smells
Sweet,
Silken,
Aroma,
Hangs in the air, a smile
Upon my lips,
Its a photo in my mind
The feeling of nature
Feeling free,
I released my handlebars
As I cycled through
Blossom,
And for a moment I was free.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
Heavy was the globe, until the glove hit
Found himself entangled in a handlebar flip
Iron in the taste, ****** waste
Continuum drawn back on a meaningless quip
Unsteady footing reminiscent of preschool days, snorting paste
Zebra striped mockery, paid off the books; his vision’s been maced
Early end to prolonged exposure, he tries to bait
Steady eyed denial approaches with haste
The monetarily gorged rule keeper entangles in debate
Opponent grows weary appearing irate
He recalls the words in a blank cheque written by a weak frame
A levelling blow leaves his opponent in a blank state
World weary and star struck to blame
All in pursuit of everlasting fame
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 3:32 AM UTC
The humdrum of machines. A missed cycle, a bad bearing, a bent fan blade.
It makes a music like no one would believe. The electric hum of powerlines and transformers. The clanks and jeers of a crowded bar, the cheers of an arena.
The construction on your neighbors houses while you set in humble shame. Jackhammers, swinging hammers. Little handlebar bicycle rings from the children you never had.
Sometimes, you want to say **** it, and burn the world down. Then you remember, some people aren't unhappy. It's not your place to sabotage their trampoline. Sometimes you're just who you are, and no one else, and nothing else matters.
Sometimes you're you. The rest of the times you're just trying to be.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
"I bagged this one
out in In-di-A!"
...the braggart's boast.
"It's a very rare
( these days)ALGERNON!"
And indeed, an Algernon
bares his teeth
above the roaring fire's
mantlepiece.
He looked startled as
he had been shot just that second.
"The head is splendidly mounted
complete with handlebar moustache
...& monocle.
One feels that one could
pop next door and there
would be ha ha...the rest of
Algernon
sticking out the other side.
The glint in the eye
the sneer just so
...right.
"And to the right of the Algernon
is a genuine Cuthbert.
Again from 1901 or there or
thereabouts."
"It is indeed a perfect specimen of
the good old chap..."
the white rhino brags yet again
of what he calls his baggings.
White Rhino's
collection of colonials
is the envy of
all the other animals.
"Some more hot *** old chum?"
But the White Tiger
puts a paw over his glass.
Declines.
The fire's flickering
leaping up the wall.
The shadow making
the humans almost
come alive
as if the Cuthbert
could turn to the Algernon
and say
"OH...I SAY!
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
I first saw him in magazine ads:
chiseled face + handlebar mustache + a thousand yard stare= badass.
Often, two smiling, beautiful people would be to his sides,
connected to his coolness, validated by his sophistication.
I couldn’t wait to have one.
An adjustment period comes with having a pet—sacrifices must be made.
People say things like, “I never figured him as a monkey person…”
and you become part of the pet owner’s subculture.
He stinks up the house a bit, but I never have to lay down newspaper.
Like I said, sacrifices must be made.
We soon develop a symbiotic relationship:
when I wake up, he is next to me…
I pick him up after every meal…
I take him for walks on my breaks from work…
Ozzie & Harriet…
Michael & Bubbles…
Frankie Beverly & Maze—
“We Are One”.
Anyhow, eleven years pass and he gets huge.
It’s becoming harder to carry him the less I think of it.
My pet develops a penchant for climbing skyscrapers,
a proclivity towards abducting white women,
but he is always there for me.
I wouldn’t call him high maintenance,
but caring for a silver-back gorilla can be expensive.
Nonetheless, he is well-fed;
the money I spend is Chiquita.
I kiss his **** sure…everyone that knows him does.
I have to get rid of him
and it will break my heart.
You can’t take a gorilla to the pound
and they won’t read Dear John letters,
but something must be done.
If I don’t **** him
sooner or later, he will **** me…
he has become a wild animal after all.
A pet is never more dangerous than its owner.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
Curious sight,
that old man in the cowboy hat,
he had a handlebar mustache and was
driving away in his red convertible,
smoking, puffing on a Cuban cigar,
singing along to a hip-hop track.
Cartoons are real,
I saw one
driving a convertible
outside the mall
the other day.
Truly curious sight.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
Little princess you've had a long day,
Running and laughing,keeping boredom at bay,
It's been lots of fun but now you must rest,
You need lots of sleep to look at your best.
So take off your play clothes and put on your nightie,
Then mam will come up and tuck you in tightly,
I'll read you a story and sing you a song,
And you'll be back in dreamland before very long.
There you're a princess and live in a castle,
You ride a pink bike with handlebar tassles,
You have a big bedroom and four poster bed,
With big fluffy pillows to tickle your head.
You own lots of toys and a furry white horse,
He lives in a stable,the biggest of course,
You feed him his dinner and off you both fly,
You shout "look at me nanny" as you fly by.
But now its the morning and time to get up,
We've got nanny to see and immy to beat up,
But the same time tonight once you've laid down,
I'll wait in our castle to give you a crown.
You're a princess in dreamland and always will be,
But even in the real world you're a princess to me.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
The old man
With a handlebar mustache
And pipe in his hand
Has asked me
How I’ve been
Every day
Since your absence.
Too chipper to be Death
Too rugged for Hope
He mentions
The pain in my eyes
Lessens each week
And offers a ****
To help me cope.
I explain,
“It’s not the thought of her
That brings me sorrow
But knowing that tomorrow
I’ll be one step closer
To forgetting her laugh
Or how she felt
In my hands.”
He casually says back,
“I don’t think it’s fair
For your heart
On the mend
To relive a love
Abandoned
When she left
With the wind.”
Same time tomorrow
Old friend.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
I have watched you cheat and swindle.
I’ve listened to your shallow lies.
I have seen what passes for integrity
In the avarice that shines from your eyes.
You don’t seem to be able to talk much
Without over-exaggerating the truth.
You speak like the infamous cookie-jar kid,
But, you don’t have the advantage of youth.
It doesn’t take long to recognize
That you are just a fake and a crook.
You can’t avoid exhibiting behavior
Of every villain in the story books.
All you need is a handlebar mustache
And a damsel to rope to the tracks
For us to know exactly who you are;
That Snively Whiplash is back!
But alas we have no Dudley Doright
To come along and vanquish the foe.
The heroes have all died out, it seems
And we only ever had eleven or so.
The rest are cowards, covering ***
And hiding behind wimpy excuses
That let the gang leaders do their worst
And heap on us further abuses.
As always the way with dictators
They need the people to lie down
And let themselves be driven over
By a huge car driven by a clown.
Those are the wimps, and the marks
Who quit learning in elementary school
Who can’t tell a statesman from a crook
And applaud when listening to a fool.
But not all of us are hornswoggled;
Some of us can read the danger signs.
We scream and shout all the way through
To idiots that seem deaf and blind.
In vain we insist of those not too bright
That the leaders should go by the book .
No matter how stupid you think we are
We’re not all as dumb as you look.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 7:02 PM UTC
In my poem, I'll grasp the handlebar with sweat-drenched palms
& unfocused eyeballs as they blur through the evening spectacle.
I'll clench death at the knot of my fingers,
& the grease oozing out from me like life itself.
The door creaks covertly, as I focus on the evening grey,
my face sliding into the shadows, unmetered and unseen.
No solace can be found at this moment,
neither can Papa's gentle smile cradle me in hope.
I'll climb onto the bridge rail, watching as people
are sliced into silence, emptied onto the deserted bridge road.
The water's blackness beckons me,
and I'll answer with my legs, climbing,
assisted by some unseen force.
I'll dissolve this fleeting hope and sink into that blackness,
where consciousness dissolves into nothingness.
~Mikelson
Dec 29, 2024
Dec 29, 2024 at 7:03 AM UTC
white pink skechers follow brown-leather feet
padding down the stairs, nothing but fall leaves and
a generation between us
the older man glides the purple beauty into our front yard and
onto the sidewalk
gramps is a dedicated biker and will be years from now
polished aluminum gives way to the sun and
his eyes gleam along with it
he guides me down the pavement, conserving my speed with a trembling palm
on the handlebar
holds me tight and shows me how not to ride,
when to push through an upcoming hill and
when to brake
--
c
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
Only a few
make a pact
with the wind
Only a few
know the joy
there within
Free of the shadow
that follows
and stalks
Escaping
tomorrow
in moments recaught
Horizons lie waiting
as pilgrims
embark
Voices like magnets
pull light
from the dark
Only a few
hear the music
on high
Through handlebar
portals
— embraced by the sky
(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)
May 6, 2025
May 6, 2025 at 12:22 PM UTC
He wore a mustache below his crooked nose twisted into handlebar shaped antlers and he spoke through his teeth with lies he stole from the devils lips on a night full of the bloodletting of lust and the strands of his beard where frozen swirls of black smoke hanging from the bottom of his outer jawline and there was dark magic spinning tales in the carmel brown of his eyes and she knew not a single truth hung there in the air seperating their hungery mouths and could taste the fire within his lungs before their tounges tangled and as they kissed she pulled out his soul and stole his fire and his breath and slipped her hands through his ribs and gently squeezed her fingers around his heart and with a swift flick of her wrist carved her intials in his pulse and he was wrapped around the desire and arch of her spine and he abandoned his dreams and his hopes and swore over his heart to the voyage of her ship and exploration of the seas and storms of her love and tied his wrist to the mast and spoke an unbreakable vow to forever sail under her name and her crown through this life and through the bones of his death and should he rise again wander the lonely shores until he found her seas and ship and heart and would then be hers again
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 5:34 PM UTC