She tells me she warns her young son that if he masturbates his penis will fall off. Keeping my thoughts to myself, when I try to make the coffee it’s old and stale before it even starts. The sickness in my stomach makes me gag a little bit. Out the window, which is actually a floor to ceiling wall of glass towering high above the city, the bright winter sun glares obnoxiously off the windows and steel beams of the other high rise buildings across the street. What exactly do we think shame protects us from? Or do we just like the perverted humiliation, turn it into fetishes to fuel another spawning seedy industry. Doesn’t matter to me, as far as I’m concerned seedy is just another welcome escape from the real mess humanity has made. Likely imperceptible to others, something in the way the day shines while she is speaking cruel words makes me want to cringe and wretch and curl into myself until all the screaming insanity stops. People are often telling me things I don’t want to hear while other people are busy ignoring the people in their lives who matter most. Just getting through a day of regular conversation, the smiling and nodding as it all goes to hell in a plastic bag of burnt coffee grounds can drain what little life you have left sliding through your impermanent veins. The only relief is the ink and the drink. There is a poet I adore who can slay you in only a handful of words. The philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer once said that, “talent hits a target no one else can hit; genius hits a target no one else can see.” She is a genius in every poetic sense, she touches you in places you didn’t even know existed within you but which had been aching since your time on this burning planet began. Each syllable expertly selected, carved out of obscurity and offered up like a beautiful sacrificial kill. She is blood in your gums, she is sex melting on your tongue. Drifting off into the safe danger of my own mind, in the static blackness I imagine a heavenly host of pure white doves, the sky is gray and endless as the low clouds move in and cover a quiet earth laid bare in shadow. Upon the dead grass, a circle of enchanting young women, open, supple, elegant gowns slipping off shoulders as they stroke and admire each other. A painting by a crystal running brook, a kiss which stands still forever in a heart which is free, a sliver of desire captured in silk. Maidens enraptured beneath an impending storm. The nature of the woman, erotic, mysterious, eternal. Perhaps the gods had stirred the skies to excite them, draw their bodies close to be soothed and discovered. Innocence. Corruption. Penetration. Poetry. Sappho. “What cannot be said will be wept.” I want to run my tongue along your fair collarbone, take the taste of you into me deeply, that I may become honey, flowing rich and thick in heated streams. All day the world is too bright, angel, sharpening my edges. But in the dark folds of this velvet night, feathered and dim, I make myself again soft for you.
This madness is crowding in on the coffee and cigarette smoke, my limbs are phantoms, my limbs are nightmares tangled in long-legged night sweats,
I moan as the thrum of your heady scent
erupts like pricks of sedation at the back of my throat.
This was twelve nights prior to the loss of God, this was yet to burn away the clouds, this was crushed poison and weather vanes coming undone.
Blush curtains, floor to ceiling,
holding speech in the folds of their wrists
collecting dust and you,
tenderloin heart in your mouth, palms wrapped tight
upon the posts of my
Hands fold, eyes fold, blind folds,
three lush creases line the hollow face
of our disregarded love letters:
one at the neck of the fold,
two at the waist of the fold,
three at the blood fire in the folds.
You touch me anywhere. Sound becomes lace becomes bone.
Pillow feathered patterns press my milken skin
as I trace the star stained desires in your mind.
I will breathe and you will breathe
and we’ll count
seven thousand times back
You and I
we’ve spent heavenly mouthfuls of time
swallowing the nights like knives.
strange beheaded creatures
sliding hooks along
Folded, too, were the love made hours
into flesh, into tear drops, into fingers, into the soft curves of
dewy breasts, cream linens, elbows, skies.
I can still feel you say it against my chest, that pleasure always bent for me
the way of a broken afternoon on sidewalk shadows,
thorough, extensive, discreet.
Your tongue thirsty at my thighs and this somber light
is a hallowed illusion of peace.
All the miserable gray snow
flung fast upon the ground.
All the cruel heat in your penitent eyes
This madness is crowding,
is crowding us in.
Perhaps the darkness
will learn to give way,
to slender suggestions
In a dust blue
somewhere across the world
the first sound is heard
by the empty air,
so very few
And in the streets below
this broken window
Hush, my angel,
in the quiet bend of the
is my most tender
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
What will you do with
the coming true
Bare feet below me, thrust of chalk white sky
stalking above and I
flesh to the press of candle glow
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
My life is a glass face:
a curious gaze without
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