// face at the window //

Forgive me, beloved,

for I know not what I do

with this terrible

overwhelm of beauty

before me, beside me,

pressed at the doorframes of my

deviant mind.

Her soft body maddens the veins,

mutilates the heart,

she dwells

and swells within me.

~

And I am afraid this is who I am,

this bend in my wrist toward crooked things;

the way the pain pins her mesh sick wings

to the whispering floorboards.

Is this who I am.  These expert invisible hands.

I am troubled of this knocking

knocking

knocking

knocking

against the spine cage.

~

Disrobe me as the moon clutches at the

breast, at the stomach, for absolution.

I am afraid this

must be my nature,

the threading of my distorted face,

for this howl floods the house with silence

but never does she leave me.

.

.

.

// forbidden suns //

How long since the feeding.

How long since the fragrance on the mouth of lilac

and quiet freedom.

I am curled against my self awareness

somewhere far away, the mad dog of eternity sits waiting

to collect my freckled footsteps,

moaning and sighing up from the ground.

Rose petal tea. I am wearing ivory cream sheets,

gazing out across

the sliding rain

through the burning bedroom window.

Purple ivy over stained glass clouds,

picture frames cutting off

my gray hands.

Smoking cigarettes made of fog,

drawing frankincense from

the throat

of all the silent kinds of

threats.

And so the day begins

to fall upon the slope of my shoulder blades,

sitting here alone

above a strange

world.

.

.

.

// bodies, traps //

Soft wet lips left behind on glass,
a white flower petal cuts the words
away from my hands.
None of it matters like everything matters;
we fall behind as we fall into
and out of
step.
Sand in the swollen nets of time. Thieves
lifting the broken windows of the
night.
We explore each other,
take into our mouths
the devil’s handiwork.
Love is tragic, love is
collusion.
When you look at me like life and death
are on the same side
I want to inhabit the palms of
your soul.
Hold me until my ribs dissolve into stars.
Forgive me these secrets: what we give away
we keep.
Where the rain floods the inside of the caverns buried in the mind
you approach me, tuck away your knives
as your skin becomes wings,
in the darkness we are free
as you
lose yourself and come for me deep.
You fall, you follow, you run,
you return before I’m ready.
Drink me like bloodthirst
sliding through leaves.

.

.

lust for the taste

You permit my palms against your neck,
swallow my lust for the taste
of the pulse of all creation.
We are the birth and death
of nations
bending forward, falling back
into the midst of each other’s
dawning.
Witnesses.
They say the trees, when threaded close together
for miles and miles
bring to bear a spirit,
a presence
of their own
kind,
a knowing long buried
rises for a time.

There are no words for the sight of her silence,
there are no limbs in the halls of her dreams.

We are diamond claws at the back
of a dying thing.
Pull your veils down over me
the moon is pale
and cold but she
moves between us;
when we stand this close
and breathe
I feel it.

.

.

 

// slide //

Where is Bukowski and didn’t
he predict this:
brown sugar bread crumbs placed
upon thick pink tongues
draped over the broken backs of these
delirious days.
In your bruised hands braiding through my gray stale hours
there are blue painted iron doors in the floor
and crushed bitter wine
bursting from
dark wet seed.
I open my mouth but shut off the scream.
~
Twilight, bewitching and twisted, is awash in childhood dreams
hanging from empty subway cars,
alone in the night, hurling themselves into nowhere
in particular.
We count eleven million stars and each of their oceans,
one by one for centuries,
trace constellations on each others bodies by the light of
pale bedroom eyes, breathing along my hips
in the tides of full orgasm,
trembling by a river of moonlight
flowing through your chest.
~
Strange the texture of innocent things
the mind will not remember,
the heart will not forget,
and my fingers can’t stop making the shape of you.
Cigarettes. Shadows. Hauntings. Mirrors. Halls.
A girl betrays herself
too young,
beautiful landscape
burned by too many suns
as they orbit split knees.
~
Statues. Angels. Graveyards. Nudes.
The afternoon heat is the swell of late lilac blooms
as they lay you on a bed of sacrificial ivory lace
touching you tenderly where it aches;
your cravings like sweet peaches
drowning in cream,
I watch you swallow hungrily such an elegant song
before the kill.
Folded and unfolded exposure,
heavy brocade curtains, impenetrable veils upon the wind;
I hide for days in a quiet room for castaway souls.
~
Across the tops of street lamps the enemy speaks
in a vocabulary of cruel needles:
sharp, clear, seductive destruction;
you say they never told you this
but the truth is when they did
you missed.

.

.

 

// prize //

Paint your walls
high on the hills and look for me
elsewhere,
the memories we spun like
royal garments
coming undone
can’t hold a candle
to a returned lover’s face
you could reach out and touch.
Tall buildings collapsing, windows –
ceiling to floor –
exploding
half way around the globe,
I can hear them inside
when I close my eyes.
I’m sleeping again, dreaming of blue canvas sky
the way I’ve heard that satin mourning doves
mate for life.
The way you used to taste me in full;
hard hot rain down the bare soak
of my benevolent
skin,
this darkness has torn my vision away
from the sun.
Just like her, just like him, just like they said it would be,
we – you and I and none of them – we in our aching blindness of being
rise like train wrecks to the next occasion.
Don’t you look for me in your disfigured instruments,
don’t you look me in the eye and bloody my hands
over the absurdity of sculpture in your withered gardens
all but overgrown, concrete limbs climbing along the vines;
beautiful horned creatures carved in black sand,
wander your lavish labyrinth of
tender flesh, steel traps,
rust in the back of the throats of those gone mad
from screaming.
I will be gone.
I will be gone.
White wings on heartache, pricks on the tongue.
You will fall thirsty, beloved, and I
will be gone.

.

.

.

// messenger //

Your lips part silently
around words I cannot hear.
Muted, but calling to me
just the same
and persistent.

Your face the promise
I’ve been waiting for,
a message behind the walls,
how the beautiful take long baths
in the
crumbling.
Please tell me what
I came here for.
What the syllables
are.

What is this developing distance
between moving and
standing
still.
The words have stopped
falling from your mouth.

“Patience.”

Time is held by the hands,
held in your hands, sliding
through vanishing palms.

And I am waiting.
I will wait with all the world
for the tremble of
a single word
from you.

.

.

// patience //

Perhaps the darkness
will learn to give way,
in time,
to slender suggestions
of light.
In a dust blue
shadow room
somewhere across the world
the first sound is heard
by the empty air,
so very few
believe.
And in the streets below
this broken window
soul,
nothing passes
nothing flows.

.

.

what will you do?

Hush, my angel,
in the quiet bend of the
wrist, this
is my most tender
undress;
this is the way I slip
inside the gap between the
thighs of the birth
of my resplendent heaven
through the fires of an ancient hell, this
is the way I
open up.
What will you do with
the coming true
of us?

.

.

beautiful light, can you hear me?

Bare feet below me, thrust of chalk white sky
stalking above and I
see myself
flesh to the press of candle glow
eyes,
through the window
the rain is swallowing tears
long dry, returned.

Sorrow curls his fragile spine
inside the hands of freedom,
an ocean of ghost bodies walking
side by side forever.
There are new worlds inverted,
refracted and coming into view –
palm touches palm, cheek to sternum
they bloom, flower, and
disintegrate.

My life is a glass face:
a curious gaze without
and within.
Beautiful light, beautiful light
brave mouth opening the dark,
can you hear me?

.

.

“The great courage is still to gaze as squarely at the light as at death.” ~ Albert Camus

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