// luna //

Flocks of wings fell from a covetous sky as I was dancing barefoot along the edge of
sickle blades beheld in your eyes,
razors cut straight into
an alabaster wind and all I have in this cruel world is a
blood wine offering to my ungodly thirst
for you:
flawless
standing once removed
at a mirror gazing into
the first orgasmic pulse of the universe.
To crave you is adoption of strange distortion, black flames wet with resplendent poison;
I am fertile, the depths of my shadows have
grown again
young.
Temptress, goddess, luna, luna, luna Diana,
deliverance, solar bodies locked in iron chairs
bending back against blue celestial walls.
You are the ancient guiding light when the galaxies are riotous clouds in my
disconnected
hands.
What of the promise which swallows the tears of dying stars
this bone cold ocean of downturned faces
as the earth cries out for her own rebirth
a river
snakes around my infectious words;
ghost lovers in soft willow frames, ecstatic oblivious rotation,
lost minds spinning on axis upon a thimble
dressing and undressing us in rose water and sage.
The crystal globes inside you are melting time beneath my fevered skin
as I insert you, blessed dark heaven between my fingers and my thighs,
tragedy and faith forever bound;
our secrets have become
corruptions
of an unrelenting
tide.

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// dark mistress //

Bone to cheek
we eclipse each other
she walks within me as I am left
behind,
shadow bodies, horses standing still at the gate.
I would trade my pain for pleasure, disconnect my jaw from my
heart if only
there were a way to separate the two.
Collections taken up in the spiral of this dark sea bed, breathing:
stars the taste of lavender liquid thunder,
my eyes held in her
eyes closing;
one face
reflected at the count of ten, mirrors on
hands on
ceilings
soft ivory angel wings bend in the clouds on fire, tongues of old in the mouths of
newborn creatures born quietly shrieking
all over the world the little lights are hungry,
hills in flames and I am the rain cascading
as she falls through me time and time
again
ash into ash disintegrating.
What I have done is the emerald chalice of mine
own blood
these sins to which she is
blind as I am
sowing seeds in the tears of this sickness
clutching its beak at the nape of my neck.
To be alone is to be
possessed,
the circling song of her thin disruptive fingers
golden chains braided between her translucent breasts
something beautiful,
bewitching in the mouth on the mouth
of my own death.

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// hearts break all over the world and here //

I knew it was time to begin again

slow.

Collect the slim beats of my disfigured heart

and each one of her tender pieces

into a somber fading evening twilight

of the soul,

tuck my bruised bones

into a nest of ambient solitude

and listen to every raindrop

tell its story.

I knew

the ways in which I had been torn apart

would heal again back together

and leave a new kind of scar,

the kind I would have to learn

to wear in the daylight

this time

too

soon.

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// this is devotion //

In the most sacred space, there is a dramatic and all-encompassing privacy; a spiritual intimacy which threads itself into a complete and full aloneness.

No other voice but that of The Infinite, a sense of perfect solitude that encompasses all beings, all objects, all life, death, light and darkness are reflected into an ever widening abyss, fallen and raised at once, deep until the deep warps fully again into itself and codes the sound, color, makeup and design of the infinite inside every cell, every atom a microcosm of the stuff of fires that become spontaneous bodies, life forms.

Whatever you worship know you may only gather at the feet of it and ask of it everything as it gives to you everything, every thought, every breath, every heart beat, every sensation, every dream, every experience, every pierce of sadness and caress of an ever dying light without end. We are fading, fading, and on the other side of the fade is an advancement; what bows forward is falling back.

Don’t blink as you sleep. Don’t forget as you leave. Remember, remember, remember all of this and keep it with you, beloved.

It is you where I come from, into you I return.

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// communion //

In my silence I am mysterious water and fire, an earth, moon, sun and sky in rotation, stillness is an illusion. Cells within cells, stars penetrating stars. A prophesy: life within life within life and my virgin mouth drinking from your sacred cup.

All life force flowing in beautiful chaotic balance, arms outstretched, infraction, inversions, neophyte eyes, moon pale fingers, strange beliefs, abandoned bodies floating on hymns in the dark.

In dreams I am a nightmare, a withering womb is pierced and invaded, I am consumed and taken by collected spirits of another world, they nourish me as they feed upon me. We belong to each other.

Not the way of this world: deeper. 

My black tears distract you as you try to impress on me the nature of a thing I attempt to write about in ink languages but fail, though I can sing to it, though I move within it as my sins line themselves back to back; revolutions in constant in the veins destroy entire cities as you walk through me in the rain.

I’m in love with the walls that make me furious, golden archways and vines made of catgut strings. I’m tired of the small world, I’m hungry and exhausted. The milk of your instruction is no longer enough.

I remove my nightdress, lace, satin, crimson, pulling and dropping over my head, skimming my lips and shoulders, I lie down beneath you and wait like an animal pacing at dusk.

My dear thief, give me something I can teach, something breathable, something with teeth. I suckle the beauty in your courageous crimes: the way your steady advance cuts through every inch of my thin body, the force of your touch can raise me crawling in the streets half across the world.

Rich soil still beneath my fingernails, grave diggers, night creatures, ancient codes buried thick in tomes, in my nakedness, in my dark benevolence, I am yours and you are the sun, my huntsman, my priest, we are not afraid anymore to look each other in the eye. When it’s time again to ask me, I tell you in perfect ritual rhyme that I worship that which pulsates within and from this obsession.

You tell me again you are pleased.

Hands and hearts of stone made flesh. You move your painted fingers along my scars: the sky births heavy snow falling on leaves; the taste of wine is a dance of holy disintegration, life again begins underneath.

I look up into a crystal constellation rejoicing, the freedom of the secrets of night on the searching tips of deviant tongues.

The turning of the slicing wind is moving her aching blood through trees; something still at the window, watching, is wicked.

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// is this fire, is this water //

It may happen that your words fall short of your thoughts, do not despair. You do not have to worry, you do not have to do this right. The great privilege of the poet is simply to be afforded the chance to even try – it’s all just a try, all of it is just an attempt, a reach – to cradle, just for a few sacred moments little flecks of infinite amounts of the stuff which explodes in the galaxies, which turns always on its axis within us, the very life which is relentless in passing us by.

You do not have to do this how they tell you. You do not have to be anything other than what you are, sliding your torn humanity alongside the words. You are worthy. Give to the words everything and they will give you everything in return.

Humility. Curiosity. Joy.

All of this fullness, it is all in motion as we stand still at the glass: at the swift feet of the winged universe. We are here inside a translation, a transmission, making attempts. Making little marks on trees, on sand, on paper, on hands.

Reminders: we are here, we are here, we say to ourselves.

What does it mean? How may I serve? I’ve been to a secret place and this is what I have seen: Is it fire, is it water, is it honey, is this something you can use? We unearth tools from a time we no longer recognize but something – a thorn, a glance, a pin prick – is familiar to the blood. We belong and we don’t belong. We are footsteps, echoes far away from home, making a way in the dark.

We are suspended always inside the reverent space between the scream and the static. Holding. Holding. Holding.

Listening for the breath, sinking low underneath the quiet only heard by the solitary ones. Hold steady the weight of a world gone to dust and offer it your gentle arms. Hold this space, hold this space. Hold this skin. Collect these bones and let them teach you how to build, word upon word, the honor is in the courage to approach that which calls to you.

Bare feet. Bare soul.

Because this too shall pass.

Clouds will cross a lonely moon.

You will become your own again soon.

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// holding still //

November is a bare bedroom welcoming the dying of light
slipping in.
my waiting skin
crystal white powder on pines
you are pink sky spreading
and, melting,
we begin to bleed the salt of oceans, to blend;
water returning always to water
eyes reflecting pools and we
dare,
softly,
full to the pulsing throat of a scourging
hunger,
drawn at the reverent knees by this ecstatic
worthiness,
to taste each other slow.
we are the way a frozen winter’s night builds fires
inside the hollow frames of animal bodies,
smoke in our lungs
tongues and flames in our teeth
birds gliding
silent
overhead.

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// inside me //

Triggers are a tough tangle, they seem to elude you even as they decorate your dark disturbing thoughts with false promises, plastic limbs and rehearsed orgasms, and somewhere in the shimmer of crystal webs made of chaotic screams, I am a ruby spider with sapphire eyes borrowed from the destruction of another world.

This life is only death, beloved, with her pale foreign face turning slow, fading into sweet melody against the phases of the moon.

How many legs, how many lives, what does it matter to be trapped, to be exposed, to be an overflow of mouths if all of this is just a dream?

Too many people slam nails into the coffin of a narrow system they’ve yet to believe in, but I’m not a slave to passion as much as I want so completely to remember an exact pierce: how to resuscitate my own experience, shatter like glass into my own symphonic ecstasy, sit obediently, patiently, tenderly with the sadness of my own solitary pain, drink from your forbidden wells and emerge pristine in the oil stained streets of every neglected city at the sunset of the final collapse of time.

Would you walk with me if I were blind, if the heels of the night were the only way home?

The sincere (I’m too seasoned to dare assume innocent, but I’m far beyond devotion to shallow truth so I’ll say sincere) intricate fabric of your interest in the oddity of dangerous things probes at the swell of ache within me. What is faith if not the pleasurable agony of longing spiked sharp with the buried memory of impossible exotic demands: command without control, love songs strung up in cages covered in orchids, virgins tasting stamen, tears in my angel hair washing your perfumed feet.

I’m not sure normal is a thing we should be concerned with, as you seem content when I’m taken in mind, body and spirit, by your view of me through windows draped in erotic scenes. We are ruthless and humble, undressed and willing, inside the beginning again and again when you lap at the edges of heat in circles of flesh across my pink sedated mind.

The heart of me is the heart of all creatures: motionless, the beauty of the stillness after a kill. Vulgar doesn’t distract me, crooked is just another trick to get back to the way it was before the labels they’ve stitched inside your skin. Forget them, turn into me; I’ll be your religion, love, tell me wordless what you need.

You like the press and the smell of leather to my lips, how I’m thorough but careful of the words I never speak. There is no such freedom as the emotions you’re not allowed to express and this is the fear, this is the tempt, this is the withholding, this is the paralysis, this is the plague. This is the game and the price you pay to play.

Heaven is the clutching of your pulse on the distorted lens of what you crave, my soft teeth tugging at the waves of trembling madness underneath.

Invitation.

Invocation.

Addiction.  Affliction.

Redemption. Release.

Faith is carved in the center of your hands: trust in all the things you wish you didn’t need.

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// under a concrete sun //

Silken mist becomes the shape of you emerging in my dreams and I am bathed in extending shadows, reaching for stars to place against your silver tongue that you may taste the heat. This desire is a terrible landscape laced in lavender evening lights, a tender sleep in the hollow life of the oldest trees.

Night will close against my skin in vapors, incense, altars; your body as ritual at the edges of my hands in prayer. I sit at your feet and remember who we are, the way the sun slides toward a blood red ocean and weeps. Beloved, I have broken open, exposed myself to the chaos and taken all of it within my breast, I lay wet in the hands of the smallest seed.

Witnessing my own birth, walking next to my own death, facing the entrance to hallways marked for pleasure and destruction. Fear is a familiar face at my window and mine staring back. Without the words I am unable to build the castles you seek, the earth I touch seems to fall away from the feet, but I promise you shelter of an infinite kind.

This beauty within me how she aches, wondering why I am so afraid, I am trying to stretch with ecstatic fibers I have yet to understand. You teach me faith when you tip my chin back underneath the moon that I may learn to breathe with wider eyes. To see you in the pale blue light, collar bone, scars and stone, is to shatter inside while standing still. This darkness is submersion into the light, a vortex, a baptism, an orgasm of flesh and spirit for which we sing, in praise, at length, dripping nectar from the supple tips of fingers.

This love is light and darkness, prismatic reflections side by side and I am falling through the middle, a centrifuge, a collision, the splitting of minds and corsets at their seams.

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// illusions of grandeur //

To read you is five cold chains draped across my glass raspberry lips, the tempt of touch and dim lighting that makes it impossible to speak. By design? You trace your words like fingers around the edges of keyholes and never let me peek, then again so many writers kill a grand thing by saying exactly what they mean.

Do love me thorough, so much of what I could have been is already gone. This body is heels wearing footsteps, wings wearing heartbeats, drums like thunder inside a revolving sky, and I keep charts of the seasons by mapping how closely your movements match the gold flecks in my eyes.

Lady Lucifer is a painted mime with a bouquet face and horns made of tar eyelashes but this isn’t something I can prove so you just shrug and wish my visions would one day yield messages more useful. They are to me. It’s no small gesture to hold my hand, my gratitude foams across ten foot waves inside but I’m never sure where the world is headed so I kiss like reincarnation ahead of time.

I can feel you letting go and it’s like mirrors on ceilings full of broken glass, long black fingernails between the gap in my scissor legs, amber crushed split images that transfer into hellish reflections, tenderness, erotica, delusion, permission, hands over hands over hands over my transgressive mouth, and the writing on the wall is latex paint peeling away from my neck.

Pure seduction is the way of the rain: conducting a fragile flower, bending spine stems alone in the dark.

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