...Open your eyes, to me.

I want to spiral, around you,
beyond the dark, infinite wall.
I want to transcend, your physical;
to lure you on, and away
into a purple field, of Freyja's daisies
with nimble, metaphysical fingers--
beckoning beyond,
the starry curtain,
of crystalline dreams.

Will you let my arms,
circle your Roman neck,
like verdant vines
and pull you further, in?

Can you feel my smile,
sun the slant,
of your beloved cheek,
and can you photosynthesize
into new life, with me
even as you re-seed, in darkness?

I want to whisper,
sweet words:
devotion, and desire
into the well, of your ear...
until they roar, and pound
with the sacred force,
of white rapids...

swollen to riptides,
in the conch shell,
of your churning mind.

I want to weave, around your flesh
and speak, a love spell
into your shifting, Lycan eyes.
An incantation, that plays,
with the blue ghost, of your flame,
and ignites, the candle of your soul,
on its breathy sighs...

...melodic tones.

There is no heart,
quite like yours.
It pulses, beneath my hand,
like drums, of war.
Gladiator...

take me, to your Colosseum.

I want to wander
the upper echelon,
of its throbbing chambers.
I want to feel you ache, for me
in your left ventricle...
soft, warm flesh,
perfectly preserved, in golden amber.

I want to gaze,
into the blinding sun,
until my eyes, tear...
closer to heaven,
than ever I've been.  

Darling, what do you see,
when you look at me?
Salvation,
or ruin?
Vikingr longships...

or Valhalla...?

I pray...that one day...
you will take my soft hand,
into the Titan strength, of yours,
and not perceive it,
as an instrument
in the ruin, and wreckage, of you.

I ardently pray, that, one day...
you'll come, to bathe
in the Baltic blue, of my eyes...

and never fear, again,
that they could drown you.











...Let me take you...home.

How can I unmake indignant hands,
rolled, into fists?
If I kiss the fingers, will they unfold,
like celestial doors,
and beckon me in?
If I traverse your lifeline,
with softened eyes, and lips,
will we time skip,
Into a time, and place,
that's better, than this?

Even in thunder,
you dwell
at the center, of me.

I wonder,
would you melt...
with my hand, on your cheek.

I crave you...
like a dry lakebed, thirsts
to be quenched
with a deluge, of rainwater.
I long, to hear your laughter, sing,
through my screen
like droplets of rain,
on a tin rooftop.
I pray, to feel the ripples, of you
run up and down,
the contours of my body,
like crashing waves,
as we rock, and writhe, in shared ecstasy.

I think, of you:
my darling...

dearest you,

and picture your face,
glowing, like a halogen lamp,
beneath mine...eclipsing the sunlight
as your hands, move,
like currents, while you swim with me.

Your eyes, are reflecting mirrors
bright pools, that I can see myself drowning in,
and liking it, as I struggle to breathe,
and asphyxiate
as you circle, around me.

I wish you could touch my smile,
and feel it transfer,
to your own face.
I wish you would pull me tighter against you,
and wear me, around,
like your favorite sweater.

I wish I could just hold you,
until the thunder stops,
until the lightning, in your head,
ceases, flashing
its alarum blue...

until we are pulled out of orbit, together
and splashed, like paint
across the blankest,
brightest,
canvas

of stars.

"She left the city as a girl
And returned a woman
In the same shoes
On the same night.
A face in the darkness;
The reaper glimpsed
At journey's end.
He straddles the bridge
Between tonight and tomorrow--
He's a revolver with
One bullet missing
From the chamber;
He's the Wheel of Fortune
With its terms unwritten;
He's an unsigned DNR notice.
He's the end of the line."

...Now, here, I stand,
miles ahead,
on disconnecting tracks,
a once-raging fire,
slowly fading,
to a silver smoke...

Wondering,
...where did you go?

Have your own wolfish eyes,
peered into glassy irises
that even, in the silences,

reminded you,
of mine?

What existed, in me
that you let me, survive?

Mister, oh, please, let,
me in on your secret...
and tell me, now, do you regret ...

how you kept me... alive...?

You're hardly there...
sketched, into the backdrop
of my convalescence,
in hematite brush strokes.
Not a flicker, of breath
warms the cold curve, of my cheek,
but I feel you cup it, anyway.

My own hand,
bloodless, bleached
collapses, in pain.
Fatigued, it creeps,
across the coverlet
in a wraithlike half dose,
to seek you, sleepily
and pull you, across the void.
To capture you, by the mouth,
and bring you, like a magnet,
into another dimension.
Lips, press down, as if stitched;

the Cupid's bow,
folds itself, into the lower lip,
and sutures shut.
It forms a thin veil, of suppression,
and secrets.

Stay with me...
stay with me, a while...
stay with me, until I fall

...a...

...sleep, overtakes me.
I'm too weak, to wrestle with it,
and sink, below its dusky tides.
Darkly, they swallow me.
I float, in an indigestible stupor;

caustic waves, ripping away
at whatever remains,
of me:
half-consumed,
in the raging belly,
of the beast.

Still... the melted glaciers, of my eyes
seek you, above the insouciant turn,
of melancholy tides.

I wish to tangle myself,
all around you
to knot about you, composed,
comprised, in looping ties
like ropes... that only bite,
into the fruit, of your skin
if you draw me around you, tightly.  

And though, there's naught,
but an echo, of you,
above the seismic waves,
of pain

That same thought, rises
A shallow cry,
but it rips, through my soul
with the sudden release
of an arrow, leaving
the taut, aching pull,
of its bowstring.

Stay with me...

stay with me, til night, falls...
hold me, til the dawn, breaks...
love me,til our worlds,
collapse...

and, stay......
stay with me.

I feel myself

atrophy
Thoughts, splayed
like beautiful, oiled legs
in a ******* centerfold...
Thoughts, disarrayed
in a state of feeble decay
I'm taken apart,
deconstructed
What's a brain, with a broken vessel,
what's a spine,
when the medulla oblongata,
falls,
to a gelatinous mush?

put me away, piece by piece
in boxes
that open, to reveal,
smaller boxes, and smaller boxes still
I become...miniscule... miniature
inconsequential,
in the great nature of things

a little wooden matryoshka doll, being peeled from its shell
layer by layer...
but what if the innermost chamber
is hidden, under lock and key

and what if you crack it open, to find
your fingers are smeared,
in the pungency, of my blood?

It matters not...
I drift skyward...no tether,
to pull me down, to earth again
and there's not enough oxygen,
to breathe,
as I drift through space...
but if I return to Earth...

the sudden resurgence of gravity
will bring me crashing,
to the ground.

...And it all...Goes...Black.

Resin glazes
soft, buzzy lips,
like oozing droplets,
of fine, dark sap.
A flash, of dancing tangerine,
tangoes, absently,
before bleary,
red-rimmed eyes,
as I light up
and burn down,
the entire rainforest...
just a few little leaves, at a time.

Those who know me least,
but see me, daily...
idling, in dark waters,
might describe me as quiet,
distant, and remote.
An island, unto myself
which waves its palms, prettily,
to strangers,
and sprouts tender blossoms,
under the intemperate eye
of its own, jealous sun.

Its shifting swell,
of hourglass sands
only seem, to glow,
and its obscenely blue waters,
only appear, to shimmer,
the further you draw,
from it.

...Am I naught, but a mirage,
which thirsty tourists,
may deign to sail to,
and from,
in discontented droves?

I keep the secrets, of the land,
harnessed,
under tribal hands.

I offer them nothing,
whatsoever,
and yet, they are voracious
for more, of the same.

They smile, and gasp,
awed, by my hibiscus fields,
and my tropical skies.

But do my fire pits,
not strip the flesh,
from roasted pigs,
turned whole, and lifeless
upon its busy spits?

And does the roaring maw,
of my active volcanoes
not devour its transgressors
beyond ash, and bone?

Bristles, glide delicately...
over cold refuse.

Random bits,
of detritus:
and your broom devours them,
indiscriminate
a placidly lurking monster,
with an unchoosy palette.  

It's almost a mindless,
shuffling dance,
with failure, for a willing partner,
while regret, lingers sulkily,
in a dark corner of the room,
and watches the two of you
locked,
in a very forced
minuet.

The world feels like it's over,
and every brush stroke, feels
like its own humdrum ending.

Then,
all at once,
when you least expect it, to


your agitated trash ,
lifts its papery little wings,
takes flight,
and flutters gently away,
in a storm of linen,
beige, and white.

The faintest flicker of hope,
rises, from the discard pile:

a wildcard moth
seeking its own, besotted flare,
of quavering torchlight.