She cannot be any more for me.
Cannot touch, cannot see or know
What it would mean to lie beside her.
Below or above or inside her.
I cannot kiss her skin enough
To satisfy my tongue,
At root, amid tonsil and gum.
There is nothing between my legs
To satisfy the ache I’ve beshouldered.
Nor to give her what she wants.
And yet to be the bearer of such lofty arms,
I have not the strength
To hold her to me, tight enough
Nor strength to let her go.
Therefore pianist or organist,
No digits can so far reach
To abrade this itch within me.
To what worldly force there is to bray,
No hips move expeditiously
Enough to shake this wanting free
Not rhetoric, charm nor Rationale
Bestow words to dissuade my need.
I have no arms to pull her closely,
Nor shape to fit her skin.

Yet I cannot be any less for her.

is it that you desire
to stuff your tongue
down my throat, playing
“loves me, loves me not”
to the melody
of my choking, guttural
pleas of “no more”
no more lies, no more
deceit spun off the tip of your
***** tongue.

take your tastebuds back;
i’ll ******* own truths.
i don’t like this
tonsillitis, i can’t
soothe it
like kids do.
lactose intolerant, and
struggling to tolerate
the way your eyes shimmer
like you’re enjoying this

I
see
nothing
staring into the gaping maw of this relationship.
No teeth.
No dangling tonsil.
No lolling tongue.
Just empty space
... and a foul smell.
Putrid
like the teeth left holes
ripped out root and all
and festered.
Hot and wet
and fogging up my glasses
bringing tears to my eyes.
I wrinkle my face in confusion,
frustration.
I am not going to just
sit back..
but that is what you are expecting...
and maybe
what you want.
So, I will sit agape
at the mouth we've rendered toothless;
a union unable
to speak
or eat
or grow.
Just watch
and wait
even in agony
or anger.
I've got time enough to decide
if we can heal this
or put it down...
like a lame horse
a dog with a twisted stomach
a bad habit.
I'm more patient,
more able,
more changed.
I'm more
than you realize.

Miles and miles of....
Space, stretched mouths, lips
Drawn apart, gums claiming their
Contents and the......
Famous uvula left dangling there

Tonsil twins, the septic sisters
Wore white adornments today
Salt stained specs sitting spitefully
Chastising for last night's overdose

Remarking about being off colour
Tombs stones stained on plaque
Patrol alert, tongue wearing a
Its stale white winter coat

Colour palette was off white today
With blue garland furnishings
Strategically placed under the
Black veil of last night's mascara

Nostrils dragged their contents
Into the daylight, sizing up and
Producing a contest for the
Incumbent tissue trail that slowly

Gave the receptacle in the corner
A purpose for the day...to see how
Sturdy it claimed to be before it
Regurgitated....spluttering and coughing

her name was Grace
daughter of the school's nurse
but in the sophomore locker room
after phys ed the boys called her Tubesock
because she was
known to take a foot or more into
her superhuman mouth from time to time
& my time was a quiet wednesday afternoon
when school let out early
for a faculty meeting & no one
was left in the administrative wing
except their children

"I want you to possess me"
she led me a trembling ape
into a medical supplies closet
full of gauze & the scent of latex
(the latter curiously adding girth to my ******* for years since)
i must've been dreaming or
i'd found the ideal mixture
of breakfast
vitamin capsules
& perfect stride during my daily phys ed mile
because good god she was down on her little red knees
incredible mouth already on **** through pants
unbuttoning them swiftly with one hand
actual tongue
actual girl
actual sweet lips
actual ****
which she then quickly released
from a too-small sports bra
during the hardening of the meat slug
slipping it smiling in/out of her mouth-soul
in my head i could only hear
synths
screaming saxophones
bass drums
maracas
permeating percussion rhythm
the closet a dark conch shell
resonating shifting vibrating
like the uncarpeted floor of a dance hall

proud, brave Tubesock taking my pink *****
in as far as it would go
radiating like a sun
teeth to tonsil
cheek to collarbone
with a deep southern-gospel choral hum
vertical as a sword-swallower
performing under a streetlamp horizon
my legs silent & stiff as she sang into it
glancing up at me at the base
making the smallest choking sound/lady like
fumes of her own ****** arousal blooming/flower like
into my nostrils from her scarlet tights
her left hand
holding my coin purse/doorknob like
gently pulling twisting kneading
her right hand
inside her own self
seeking a fire or some source of heat
in the drafty dark closet

when i came too quickly
(still a victory in my mind)
shooting my cannon smoke
into the midnight of her mouth
adrenalin shivering in my shoulders and throat
my hand locked around a lock
of her crimson hair
she unplugged herself & without wasting a drop
smiled back up at me
returned the unstiffened dagger to the
cold nest of my boxer briefs
but kept kneeling in the dark closet
split in half by the thin crack of light i created
as i emerged among the sound of seven hundred bells
to kiss the soul of revolution
a brand new too-tall man holding a lamb
bigger than god himself
standing on steel pistols for legs
shouting cursing beating my breast
under the sharp fluorescent light of a high school highway

Hearing history whisper in the background

in an aural realm
I hear enkidu bled
ink
to fill the pens

of ready writers after
ever
lasting word
forms
a name
Enki, wisdom and life
flowing

into length of days
ancient
days
long

remembered, visited
in daydreams
featuring

all that may have been,
then.

Some soporific drink drunk
in old Uruk

vicareate, those in lieau of you.

Dying for you to go into the
realm
of knowns past
knowing knowns now in this

realm

make your mind reach mine.
Stand under my lines and

lean toward joy
good and calm,

gentle waves of peace
swirling fibrating threads
forming

woven things, matrices,

see the points crossed over
and under,
see the edges wound around,
to keep the rubbing of

reality from fraying ends.

did the fingers gno the math,
the ciphers we see
in carpets woven by magi
families
for centuries, ere

The Prophet were told to Read,
and he refused
to learn,

but chose to teach that which
an angel of light,

warned against by Paul the Gnostic Jew,

taught? Told to read, but never learning to do it, because angel said,
say exactly what i say...

Teachers once learned by teaching, but
never has reading been masterd
sans
sensibility of the graphemes
re
presenting the noises

common in every human ear
hearing in
sapience, abruptly

Hear!
Easy to be entreated. You have ears?
Hear.
How is never asked, why is clear; ears hear,
we all have ears.

Not all ears hear.
But eyes can learn to read, with some effort.

I magine it your task. You the first speaker of your
magic tongue-lung-teeth-lips, epiglot-tonsil-nasal

noise making system, engineered
to permit

song in accord with this, our shared realm of
noises, common.

Ha. This tale of an angel telling a messenger to read,

is this a famous story? Have I not learned of a war being
waged,
i.e. fought with stand-ins paid to fight, live or die.

Soldiers formed from hearers of empty songs
stretched to cover eyes, as well,

push and pull, hot and cold, balance value
weight and worth

imagine knowing no written tongue

you, dear reader, this book of lives in life per se,

who could see this coming?

Papyrii and clay and stone

cities are inventions of men

men who would be kings
imagined
delegating

knack for knack *** for tat

this for that all
for me,
the man wombed or un who would be

like the most high god I can imagine

ah the danger of falling into anachronism

you first must imagine, dear reader, that
writing is an invention

intended to bher the burden of learning to
remember, really,

no po'etic license claimed or blamed

famine of the written word
negates not the worth of rhyme and dance

masques and noises of roaring bulls

thrumming, thundering herds

screaming hawks, squeeling rabbits,
caw
cawing crows or ravens if that
distinction is
ever
necessary...

as the story is told, some time after ever starts.

This has been a chapter in our history,
dear reader from the times before the pictures
were scratched on the rock Sisyphus rolls.

Twixt now and then lies a realm of stories locked in idle words
never written for never having a reader
who grasped the message to the prophet,

read.

-----
Uruk, was there a ****** who watched you rise and learned
to make a city sufficiently

enslaving to raise a king from the son of a king

to the level of luxury allowing

reading all that writing demands

suggestive is the fact that the written word for C2H5OH
is a spirit ual thing caught in a word
as old as the earliest writing
remaining

alcohol, spoken now, would call for a drink in old Uruk and Akkad,
as would reference to kohl warm eyes,

be cool

as are we all, we living words spoken in times past,
listing in lusting vacuums of empty songs

ah, you shall not surely die, poor Gilga-
mesh, the net

spread in your sight, you never thought

networking and weaving were skills teachable, thus
this witty idea, the best potter makes only one pattern of ***,
all for me,
I take them a ll and feed the potter meat. Mighty hunter, am I.

I feed many with one mammoth

I am worthy of all they make with strength taken as granted

while chewing the carcass of my
****
--- here it comes,

civilization---

things in abundance might be made,
and traded
for
that which we lack the knack to make

so soon does some medium of exchange manifest

as witty inventions emerge from seeds carried from the garden

How? Now, off-scour, **** of the earth, us-all,

poor you have with you always,

we, the feeble-but-not-un-minded, people, whisper

when we sing,
shuffle when we dance, fly when we dream
and live until we die and leave mere words to live ever after in the wind,

making peace for the heirs of the earth.

The berries are poison berries, the boy said.

What kind of poison?

Bad kind.

How do you know?

Mom told me.

Dare me to eat one?

Yup.

It don't taste like poison.

What does poison taste like?

Worse than this.

I want some.

How poisonous is it?

Mom says it'll **** you.

Then why'd you eat one.

I want to go to heaven.

I thought they were a little poison, like make you **** funny poison.

I figure if I want to make it to heaven this is the only way.

I can't believe this. You didn't say anything—

Bible says all children go to heaven because they is innocent.

I'm going to throw up. You just put your finger on your tongue, right?

Further back. To the tonsil thingy.

It's not coming. I can't. I can't. This—I didn't feed the dogs.

Don't worry about the dogs. We're going to heaven.

Bible doesn't say that.

Preacher does.

Well.

Preacher said it's impossible for a rich man to go to heaven, pretty tough for a fat man—on account of the way being so narrow—and just plain hard for everyone else. The only one guaranteed is kids.

I haven't even kissed a girl.

You're not missing much.

I've only kissed Mom.

Yeah. She kisses okay.

What if the kids aren't innocent?

Kids are always innocent.

I feel funny.

Me too.

But what about kids that do bad stuff?

Like?

You know, fighting and cussing and stuff.

They don't know better. Free ticket to heaven.

Huh.

My tummy is making put-titter-put noises.

What if a kid slayed another kid? You know thou shalt not slay.

I didn't slay you.

I'm just asking.

I wouldn't slay.

You didn't tell me these berries would **** me. Seems the same as slaying me.

Throw up.

I tried.

Let me help you. I ain't losing my free ride.

Geez. You're hurting me.

Throw up.

I can't.

I'm going to punch you.

Don't punch me.

Throw up.

You punched me.

I'm going to do it again.

No.

Throw up.

You punched me again.

Let me try cramming my fingers down there again.

Ow.

If God chalks this up to slaying.

He will.

I'll find a way.

A way?

To heaven.

She had a glow
That illuminated the
Shadow of the sun
That was put out with
A misplaced scalpel
Across her beating neck,
And the gas that
Put her to sleep
Held her down,
Hugged her tight
As she choked,
And woke up
In a place so dark.

We shouted the things we wanted
The most on unguarded roof tops
Thought up things like new colors
New feelings
we lived like messy hand writing
like abstractions
our souls mosaic
we took things that electrified
our senses
we felt love more intensely
felt it like a ******
felt it like a magnificent burden
it wasn’t a lump in our throats
but a swollen yearning for the truth
like an inflamed tonsil
a piece of someone on our tongue
left from a kiss that we can’t seem to
spit out
a vibration in our teeth
telling us that this
this here is what it felt
to hold fire in your hand
and not regret it
never regret it
we burned with this for days
stayed up all night
drank coffee by the galleons
punched ourselves numb
coated our skins in alcohol
and linens
peeled off scabs from our lips
left there by words we never said
blank objectives
cleared our schedules
cleared our wasted minds intoxicate from pine
wine, girls with confidences and odd mirrors
of *******
we wanted winter to kiss us
leave us frozen but not that she already had
we wanted to remember like an old photograph
like a worn out stretch book
a L shaped couch left behind burned
like we did
there are tons of things we needed
but what we wanted was a good ******* a really
good *******
Something to keep away the suspense
The terror, the anxiety
the failure
we are tired of saying anything
cursing is our second language.
sarcasm is our first
and a blank page is our third
We’re speechless
We’re exhausted
We’re afraid
We’re old
We’re young
We’re tired
We’re loose
We’re *****
We’re yearning
For it
Whatever it is.

Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.
Makes the mind begin to wander.
Sambuca shots make pussycats out of the simplest one.
Swimming round with coffee beans.
Alight.
Alive.
Smell the smallest taste.
Before it even smacks your lips.
Tongue and tonsil tickling.
The morning after the night before.
More pickled than an onion.
(c)Livvi

a Black Flight of
swollen tonsil
busy convincin’
the demon to leave
the throat
failing of the
Black Halo
corrupt

the world of hot neon lines
pickin’ up
Discardin’ the ones I don’t
need
weaving a poem with Black Hands
a nest
someone has opened The Black Sail
and spilled the dye
The sky a closed mouth
Black Damp

lungs heavy to hang
found sorrow in short hand
some sad Morse code
bury the Black Book and the Black Box
place all my words
down with me in the final Black Room

an itch that’s made
it’s home so deep
a fungal sternum cut and a
cough, a metronome
shrinking from the SHOUT of the Black Sail
started on the rim of madness
Open
Like third kingdom’s gills
sail Flight and Halo
All Black as shadow laid
To defeat
Two days at White Sea
Let my words
Let ‘em shine

The burden of the messes you left weighs heavy on my chest. I think my heart is beginning to slow down because frankly I am not strong enough to stand up straight anymore. I cannot remember good times because you are so rotten that you have eroded every memory of you into a nightmare. My preconceived notion of the pain dying with my love for you was wrong. I am suffering more now than I ever was before. Without the smoke screen of affection and adoration, I see you as who you really are. I see every fight, every hole in the wall, every ignored plea to stop as what they really are. You are foul. You are disgusting. I fear my hatred for you is beginning to rot my heart, too. And that is the last thing I want. I want to be able to love and accept the love I am given without your voice in my head telling me I don’t deserve this, any of this. I may not deserve happiness but I know I at least deserve to rid my brain of every thought I’ve ever had of you. You tried to tell me that I never really loved you because if you really love someone, you never stop. But I know now that is not true in the least bit. I am no longer bound to your disease by some asinine cliche or the belief that I have to always love you because I promised you I would when I was fifteen. Your name has become synonymous with death. Everything we once had, has long expired. There is a tombstone underneath my bed with your name on it, and with time it will collect dust and inevitably be forgotten, just as it should be. I hold no obligation to you, not even the you I thought you were, the one I made up in my head. It’s not that I broke my promises to you, it’s that there was no way of keeping them without killing whatever was left of me. You are an appendix, a tonsil, a fake friend, an extra piece of cake. I never needed you, though at one point I may have thought I did. In two years I will have forgotten your middle name and what street you live on. You are not vital, you are not a necessity, you are not more important than me, and my biggest mistake was ever believing you were. I can talk **** on you up down and sideways, criss cross and backwards, but I know there are things that I can’t change. The things you did to me can never be undone, but they do not have to be redone or relived either. I don’t have to carry these bruises around any longer. I’m not going to carry these bruises around any longer.

I love ignorance
almost as much as I love that distant smell of rancid toenails,
but not as much as I love the sound of crying, ill-changed babies,
nails on a freshly cleaned chalkboard,
a violent and exhausting ***** two stalls down,
or the jaw-work of someone gorging on a steak,
swallowed down by their tonsil constricted esophagus.

I'm okay with receiving a D on a test.
An F would never make me want to convulgely cry or scream
WHY?! WHY?! WHY?!
over
and over
and over again.

Perfection is the last thing on my mind.
I never feel the need to sketch a circle,
I just half-assedly drip it into the paper
until it portrays and eighty year old man's forehead.

I swear I haven't slept with a stuffed animal since the fifth grade,
because I always had the company of ten to twenty friends
at any given time.
I never felt pressured to look good,
wear makeup,
straighten my hair,
and do the skinny jean thing
even though they look like crap on my engorging thighs,
because everyone loved me as is.

I was never picked on,
I never had to try to make new friends,
but most of all,
I was perfect.

Exuding the beauty that can make Mona Lisa blink
Listening to my heart I'm thriving on instincts
My writing is so ill my ink stinks
got sleight of hand to make disease think...
So read and let it all sink.

See evey broken heart has a ** phase
So I sit back and watch as it all plays
And no I don't hang and blaze
Because I don't believe in anything that's not baked
And that doesn't mean I'm into *******
I would do space cookies and watch the world in a haze

Don't get me wrong I am a lover in my own right
I just need a companion who will will be bare and forthright
Acknowledge what I feel for her and never lose sight
Make love with me and caress me with all her might
Kiss me like we're playing tonsil hockey and let me lip-bite

My affections are a selection of my art dedications
Devoted to the truth and all his friends, that's my collection
If she is carefree then she can link with me, we might have a connection
Sparks do fly like a dust speck so let them not turn into thorns set ablaze to electrocute my fusion
My fusion being my feelings for you so its not an illusion let there be no confusion

I am a guy who likes to be behind the scenes, never causing a scene, just kneading tapestries and watch them meander your heart like streams
If you are feeling the seams then this could be what it seems
I just wanna get lost in your eyes as they gleam, retrace your face in my memory so it teems
I will open up my pores and they will be a fortress
We can think of the horizon and have you lie supine on my mattress

Exchanging fluids and fumes, take whiffs at your perfume
And remember always that you are my muse
Sing in the language of the ancients as you ******
Feel my heart skip a beat, that's a vibrational chasm
Your legs are locking me on my waist
Our lips are locked like we're creating paste
I love how my psyche you amaze
If I was psychic I would look into your soul and tell your forefathers that you haven't been a waste
 
In my heart you'll shine forever
This has been one hell of of an endeavour
I'm seeing multiple heavens and it's perfect cloudy azure weather
Love you like a dove, you are the bird of my feather
I see you through the eyes of my soul and you are whole
Igniting fire is what I want to do where you feel you have holes
I scored the jackpot with you, keeping rank with your emotions is my goal
Take my hand, you are my hope so let's do like voyagers and elope.

They see me wearing skirts and stilettos
living my life in falsetto
which they claim a false meadow
and all call out hell no.

They call me godless
when I crossdress
in this frost mess
of lost guests.

They call me a queen
just to be mean
I am what they deem
what they instantly gleam.

Some don’t like what’s different
so the townspeople pick up their pitchforks
they want to diminish my imprint
I guess that’s what they call me a ***** for.

They despise the flamboyant game
coming from my derelict frame
they ask if I feel no shame
I ask them the same.

Every time I’m on the verge
of a dirge
they swerve
from my verve.

While I walk on the air
they watch and they stare
envy ensnared
jealousy scared.

I see myself as ethereal
and try to be pure
they see a disease venereal
in need of a cure.

They say men mustn’t be feminine
even if it is genuine
and there’s a place they’ll send you in
to die with the men who sin.

They order me to mask my grin
and act masculine
but I never asked to win
so I bask in sin.

I search for connection
turning in the direction
of those interested in my *******
not my introspection.

They’re so ******
they’re so catty
they’re just wishing
for a daddy.

The lo-fi
don’t know why
I go cry
and don’t pry.

Excruciating wonders
tear me asunder
until all of my plunder
is a magnanimous blunder.

My throat gets a mite coarse
from the blight force
of their high horse
on my white porch.

My tonsil gets scratchy sore
once they freeze my core
and I sing no more
exiting the door.

I can’t speak
let alone sing
my body is weak
and so are my wings.

They want me in their baritone
narrow home
where sparrows go
to carol no.

I see the slinking bass
ruining this stinking place
engendering a sinking face
whenever I get a thinking taste.

There’s a sharp staccato
in the places I will not go
where the race of evil taught notes
lower than my shipwrecked boat.

I go underwater like the Maldives
silently we all scream
living in our small dreams
rooting for our ball teams.

Once they see I’ve drowned
they hand me back my crown
and tell me not to look so down
after I’ve been gagged and bound.

I respond to their monotony
noddingly
plotting the
same odyssey.

I adopt the stature
of Margaret Thatcher
I’m the student’s master
like a brimstone pastor.

Now I sing as low as I can go
and my flow is extra slow
because I could never grow
living my life in falsetto.