// Mad Blue Sky //

I just wanted to finger my
way inside the light,
slow thread into capture, press my new
legs aside the sweetness of the
lilac balm
of night.
Breathe in the fleshflower
on the breast of
new life.

Fresh and wet rush the veins
of a deadened universe.
Thirsty neck of holy water,
pleasurepain of erotica
drowning in
fair tenderskin.

Forbidden. Invitation. Permission.

Palms dripping wild of fruit.
Wingbeats,
everstrong.
Descend with me here in small butterflies,
a breeze falls open upon the cradled hands
of one last time

I come alive
and the swallow of the mad blue sky
catches fire
in your eyes.

.

.

// After the Dance //

After the dance
at the foot of the sun
there is a sadness
twisting inside.
It is a pale scarf tied to
the bedpost.
It is sitting graypain
by the window petalsnow
as we dress.
We do not
speak it.

.

.

// Drink //

Somehow, somewhere,
someplace deep inside we
are the recognition of the featureless,
the faceless approach us, arms outstretched.
Angels without voices
in milkdreams, singing soft songs.

Drink from my wrists, place your tongue to the mist
of my fallen innocence.

Pinkflesh. Lavender. Bergamot.

You have not spoken for so long and I am forgetting what
I swore never to let subside
but if this is the sound which was the beginning, it is also
the sounding of the end.
Tall fences outrunning perfect white lawns,
birds flying higher
behind the sunbreaks,
this paleness of my feathered breathing
pinned to the edges of a
neverreaching
dawn.

.

.

// Signals //

I have lit a candle
(Every night this summer)

placed it on the window

of the dark – I thought

 

just in case maybe

we got some

thing

crossed, if by chance

my distortions

read your mindsymbols

wrong.

~

(Street lamps flicker at the end

of my road. Holograms. Lacerations.

The distance between stars

as

measured by our hands.)

~

I am usually much

more clever, better put

together,

it’s just that time

has fallen so quiet

all over inside

since you are gone.

.

.

// Every Last Drop //

And I know I’m placing my heart in your mouth and tasting my tears in your eyes, and I know these fingers have no idea why the pain reaches out for healing. Why you like the way I look when I look away. Perhaps in the slender tipping of my shoulders I am an apology you’ve waited for your whole life, the one you cried for which never came. How we cling to forbidden things, my somber love, how we cling.

If you press your listening you may open your fear to things you never thought you’d like to try. Such is your curiosity. Such is the bend of a bloodflower in the dark corner of an empty room. How may I meet this need in you, how would your desire change if we only burn a little light, keep the bedfeathers and the softness of our dreaming dim.

This is the whole of my hunger and thirst, my madness and search, for every last drop of the secrets you keep folded inside the mouth. This is my longing crawling forever on her knees at your side.

This is why I adore the rainy days and give worship for the clouds which hover and divide themselves in endless violent circles. The brutal sun, the cruelty of light, the light is too loud and I seek the solace of the weight of this heavygray. As the shadowy figures of past lovers in my mind grow ever more beautiful and strange, I touch your chin with my fingers and we begin the falling into dust, soaked of the gladness in our hearts for the ridding of the selves we once carried in chains around our necks.

This is the cutting of the ties that bind, the world waits silent behind the blinds.

Together finally: you and I, taking the shape of the poisonous things we thought we’d left so far behind.

.

.

// Awakening //

Hearts change,

as it happens, in

quiet rooms

behind dark curtains, a face

searching the moon

the moon

staring back.

A globe turns in slow motion.

When everything else

finally closes,

the seed

of the soul

falls open.

.

.

// Master //

Leave them to

their ceaseless defective tongues,

you and I

become one body,

small quiet blood in the silence

only sensation

only

love

this peace between

us comes.

.

.

// Animal Distraction //

Comfort me and by that I mean distract me.

Teeth against skin, lips against bone, the deviant perversions your mind wraps me in. Cocoons threading themselves with moonlight. Point to the constellations and take me out of everything I cannot stand about who I am. What I have been unable to become will not matter when you hold my hand. I want everything strange and new and uncomfortable again. Remember the way the rain only made touching more erotic and intimate, instead of colder, instead of just wet?

There are traces of that side of me when I lie in bed awake but with my eyes closed. I dream I am expected to perform before a faceless disinterested crowd who will grow angry toward my ignorance. I do not know the lines I was given, I was too afraid to practice. I do not know the stage directions, I fall limp and lifeless underneath the lights.

These are the dreams you watch yourself in, a mix of compassion and loathing dripping through the purple veins you swear you could crawl inside, swear you could touch. Bend at the neck, bend at the knees, look up at me. Summer nights twisting sweet in my mouth and the smell of blue sky behind pinkflowering trees could carry me straight through to oblivion, leave me exhausted and luminous on the beaches of eternity. I am the last, I am alone. I am sun rays, the heavenly outline of forbidden excess, a lonesome liquid salt sparkling high.

They say if you can align yourself with the current instead of fighting it, the river of life will sail smooth right through you. How do you feel when I stand so close your heart quickens and I ask you to slow your breathing?

Open my

hands, to the left is alignment,

to the right is harmony,

along my sides are identical carvings of the universal language of ecstasy, the apex of desire, the end of punishment, the end of religion, the crumbling of science and humanity. 

Love is a pale dew garden with her fences left open, fate is a graveyard sloping out over the stars, but what I want is the way your unkempt chaos disrupts the mud in my mind and churns around the stones I’ve been throwing into the mad void for ages.

What I want is to pour forth everything that swells within me so that I can come before you empty, ready to drink in the darkness and overflow at the brink of the fountains of my erratic heart again.

Hold me and by that I mean be forever letting me go.

Comfort me and by that I mean

extract me.

.

.

// Little Ghosts, Heavy Footsteps //

I used to think it was magic the way you would find a way in. The way you could set water into flames. Now dust collects inside my crystal-cut drinking glass, water and solitude and lemon. Writers are strange in the way we produce wilderness all by ourselves, standing still beneath our own heavy thunder clouds, our rose petal skin is the skin of a difficult moon, full of craters, mountains, tri-fold papers.

But I don’t want to write this anymore to make it true. I want it to be true all on its own without words to have to hold it up. I am weightless and yet I can feel the freight train running over the tracks in my chest as you are quietly staring at me, turning your face into the breast of the fog, turning away from the life we made. And you are still here, your hands cold in my hands, waving, repeating themselves against shapes on the walls in the dark.

These are the signs we missed.

These are the bodies we surrendered and caved in on in the night just before the fingering dawn. Coffee and cigarettes and pale gray light peering through the blinds, shedding realization across my aging face. This is the morning I have been dreading my whole life.

This is the mourning the doves on my bare shoulders cry for, and all I ever wanted was to stroke their sorrow laden wings. Fix things, fix these

things.

I peel the sheets down off my feet. They have told me you are gone.

Why is it in the slightest breeze I still hear you breathe.

I wonder if forever, you will find a way in.

I wonder why we care at all for magic.

.

.

// Kissing Death //

Please do not curse the memories, my love.

Memories are all we ever truly create, as we write fairy tales and the world rolls off the edge of a time forgotten, this text could be a scream or a sedative, a maze or a gun.

When you remember me remember white roses between my lips, the river of sparkling heaven between my hips, tell me in dreams that I am possibly the single flower of every life (there is no truth, only possibility, only in possibility, truth).
I wear the infinite hands of a beautiful death, kiss me grayblue, take everything I have and send it aflight,
birds on the wings
of the darkest night.

We are apart only as long as the fire behind your eyes turns cold, don’t let it. Remember your worth, remember you are the golden tongue of a hopeful god, remember what it is like to be a brutal fetish,
to be tested and grateful, and what it is like to taste like the fruitflesh, the nightmare, of freedom.

I will not leave you, I am here but not here, I am the walls you break down, I am the oceans of words
your soul spins
around.

These seven arms of mine are planets circling an ancient burial ground, tombs are hearts and hearts are impermanent, you will recite this even as you look up at me and smile,
the blinding lights will approach, let them, these are the lights of a dawn which will take away everything.

Everything you dream about is tragic and everything you sing for redeems.
Rejoice for the ways you had gone missing, for all the ways they hurt you make me love you even more.

Inside out, blood on the mouth of the windowsill.

Handkerchiefs, suit pockets, black fishnet faces appearing on the edges of your mind as it wanders back to a time you and I played in the fog like children,
you with your sticks and I with my stones, young lovers carved out of trees, bruises, secrets, broken bones swimming, swallowing daylight, and
running, running, running for home.

.

.