Made to Suffer

The professor speaks to me of pain while twisting it into a kind of pleasure which is not a new sensorial experience for me, but is new to have someone attempt to explain it in such clinical terms. Intrigued, I close my mind to all other thought and listen with marked attention. There is a blurring of boundaries which takes place both inside of his mind and inside of my own as he describes the body’s natural responses to stimulus, both hurtful and enjoyable, defining each as ‘punishment’ or ‘reward.’ I watch his eyes, flashing almost imperceptibly when he uses certain terms. Like ‘administer’ and ‘the subject’ and ‘threshold.’ Taking a sip of water to quench my thirst and attempt to cool the heat beginning to simmer in my veins, I slide a wet finger across my lower lip and take a note down in my notebook. It is the separation which is the illusion. It is the labeling of a feeling such that categories may be constructed to fit inside a mind which is instinctively fearful of discomfort. How we fear and crave discomfort in the same sweaty breath which holds the heart and mind suspended above the mundane human experience, elevates us for a few heavenly moments into the divinity which expands beyond the body, only rarely accessible through it. Forcing myself to concentrate on this man’s teachings, I observe the slowness with which he crosses the room in front of me, setting a pace, a rhythm, the deliberate pattern of his steps a metronome back and forth rustling a fire beneath my blossoming curiosity.  Perhaps to suffer is a prerequisite for euphoria, not entirely apart from it, some kind of distorted abundance. A terrible excess. To suffer is to feel deeply everything except the thing you most desire to feel. As a lover suffers the undesired absence of both the pleasure and the pain inflicted by her object of affection. It is the void which is the gaping, the ache, the mystery. As a poet suffers for the word. For the ache of being made aware that the word is there, just beneath the surface of her own skin, yet cannot be touched.

Flesh and Other Gateway Drugs

Tearing through my shredded mind in an attempt to calm my nerves enough to get even a few words down on the page, I feel the claws of my thoughts peeling back my insides like piercing the fleshy innards of a ripened fruit. I don’t know what the substance of the mind is made up of but in this moment, for reasons inexplicable, I imagine it pliable, fragrant, seeded, slippery, and sweet. Blinking back tears which never seem to fall, screens flash all across the neighborhood, the shriek of bloodshot cartoons, the absurdity of protesting mobs, blue and orange charts, plots, graphs, curves measured out on dotted lines meant to quantify the exact number of and projected increase in the local, regional, and global death counts. Real tears break in real time in a fake panorama world. Sun rise, sun fall. There is a cruelty in the air which shoves the bones of the trees around on my block, I listen to the expectant green leaved branches rustle and sway in submission from my upstairs window. Tell me to kneel. Tell me what you’ll do to me. When you tip my chin back, I spread my legs. The sky rolls in dark and heavy, threatening clouds thickly pregnant with a coming torrential rain. I want it so badly. The storm, the wetness, the rhythmic assault upon a soft yielding earth. All day long my body craves relief from a feeling I am unaccustomed to, a feeling which teeters somewhere along the culminated edge of dissatisfaction and rage.

I have too many books going at once. I have too many media feeds, too many lines interrupting my concentration, lines remembered, lines yet to be written, lines in hopscotch patterns chalked on the pavement. People crowd my dreams in lines threaded through one another. Waiting. Fidgeting. Waiting to board a plane, a train, a bus or some kind of transportation which never actually arrives. I shuffle in with a crowd, realize I am missing my shoes, or my bag, or some such thing which I misplaced and try desperately to remember where I left the item while weighing in my mind whether or not I can fetch it and make it back in line in time to board the aircraft. Or whatever vessel we await to move us out of here and over to there. Safety in a storm. Your massive hands upon my minuscule waist.

Suddenly, a shrill voice pierces the chaos over an intercom, announcing the name of the destination country, which I do not recognize enough to place, only just enough to know I should be afraid. How did I get here? What am I doing in this crowd? Face coverings, covering, covering, covering mouths, panicked eyes in skulls devoid of tongues. But somehow I wake myself, remove myself from the nightmare of the dream to feel my own eyes wide open to the darkness gaping all around me in a silent worn out room. Beside me, my lover sleeps soundly, as my sight adjusts to the bare thin traces of light around the edges of the window. The silver sliver of the moon meets my gaze, hovering high, a weary yellow eyelid nearly closed. As if to remind me of my lowly place among nocturnal things. This carousel of madness. Around and around this mirrored stem we go.

Chrysalis

I play with fire and burn the house down to the ground only to raise you up again from the ashes and use my own tongue to lick you clean. This world we’ve created is madness. It is hell on earth brought down like a curtain, like a veil draped over the faces of eager virgins. Faces obscured. He wanted all of me and I gave him the few slivers I had to spare after dividing up the bones and discarding the filth. While I’m soaking in the bath reading poetry aloud because the way my voice reflects back into itself as it echoes against the tile walls is a turn on, he kisses me when I am drunk. I kiss him back because I like the taste of the liquor on his beautiful lips. He has the most wickedly talented mouth, I can’t deny that. With it he violates, penetrates, and dismantles me entirely. He reaches a strong hand beneath the water and touches me where I open like the gates of heaven, warm, blushed, honeyed. This is how we breathe at the bottom of the ocean of uncertainty. We close our eyes and grope each other’s bodies searching for something we need to feel but cannot bring ourselves to lay eyes upon. The burdens of the ages they try to fasten around my neck are their way of telling me I mean something but I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to mean anything, I want to be free of definition, left to my own reckless devices. After we make love, I sit in our small garden beneath the bedroom window naked, smoking a cigarette while watching the storm clouds move in across an apocalyptic sky. Please let the rain come down hard and heavy all over me. If there is a god please don’t let it take away this exquisite pain which threads itself in my blood. No one’s aloud out and no one’s aloud in. We have only each other to degrade and to satisfy, to feed and to fuck and to sink and to swim. I am gray as the others fade to black. I am the ghost of my haunted past and always have been but the trick is that none of it matters now. Taking a deep shredding drag of my smoke, I run my hand down my body from neck to breast to stomach. Will we ever get out of here. How do we ever get out of here when all we ever do is keep turning back.

Climax

Drifting languidly away from everyone and everything which is disintegrating on this hollow glassy globe, I perch in a treetop like a fairy nymph lit up in moon glow. My little feet dangling in the empty night air, I watch as far below nothing happens that anyone else can see. The blackness of midnight stretches out in every direction, swallowing endless fields of graying husks left for dead against the cold hard ground. Looking up at the marbled purple sky, I see the moon looming larger than my entire life, hung there cratered and pillaged and beaming, basking in the strangeness of her own uneven face. When the hour is right, and the creatures of night move within every inch of my bones, I lean back upon the tree to steady myself, part my legs wide as each one falls on either side of the thick branch in which I have made my feathered nest. By the light of each winking star that shines on my skin, I finger my sweetness while riding the tender surges of energy that come in ecstatic eruptions from their distant glimmer. Make me one with the ancients, with each act of deep erotic penetration, commune me with every mouth which ever uttered the mighty names of the Gods as they raised their sharp blades, made sacrifices on altars of crimson and gold. Open my veins and drink of my blood like mad rivers of nightmares and dreams. Part my ribs and dig your grave in the calm center of my slamming heart that I may know you are not afraid of the chaos of the storms that I am and always will be. My sweat mixed with exotic night air, my hair all colors of the wind which blows with steady force against the rising of the tides, I move with them, heaving breath and sacred rhythm. Reaching my peak as the trees tremble and quake with my movements, I cry out in ragged adoration for the white hot explosion I have made myself endure. In this quiet seclusion high above the earth below, I have never felt more safe, more alone, or more beautiful. The others cannot understand. They need love but hate themselves for it. They want freedom but put themselves through all manner of hell to avoid revealing the little freaks they really are. But creatures like us, we worship only feeling. We suckle only upon the full breasts of melancholy, dip our tongues in to caress only the soft flesh of sadness as she moans beneath us, helpless, sinister, supple, needy. Give her what she longs for, bring her to her knees. Having heard my sensual song, you come climbing down from the mountain, your animal eyes flash yellow, reflective, hunting me through the swaying leaves. Your movements are primal, heart beat steady, as your muscles snake their way around my body in the dark.

Lilith

He places his fingers deep into my mouth to teach me to be silent. I struggle and bite them at first but then my mouth floods with hot wetness and I cannot help but suck like a dazed hungry animal. He plays his games with my body and I play mine and, as if by some cosmic random miracle or joke, inexplicably we fit together more often than we fall apart. Removing my blindfold, he looks me straight in the eyes and in a dark flash I can see the beautiful demons within, I can see all the way through to the other side of his sweet desire to the mischief of his reckless need. With my lips and tongue, I taste the way he tears himself apart, the way his muscles twitch and flex as he raises himself up like a beast. He tells me I’m a filthy precious angel right before flipping me over and taking me as his own. We are rough, we are sweat and restraints, and yet we are a softness so naked with silence you can almost hear the feathers move on the wings of the black birds as they flutter and soar past the open bedroom window in the evening springtime light. I exist for his pleasure. He exists for my pleasure. We take our place in the endless circle of life and death and resurrection. For reasons we do not speak about because we don’t need words we only need our bodies and our fantasies, our mutual aching greed. I take him from her. I take him from all the rest and lock him away. I am his, he is mine. I take him like he takes me, with intentions to expose, intentions to deliver into the sacred hands of madness and destruction. I do not fear the fire, I would like to watch it all go up in flames around us as we consume each other until the end of time. Sing for death. Sing a hymn into the wind of a new beginning. All my life I have observed the others and wondered why I can’t be like them. Why I am more selfish than servicing. Why I am more the shadow of a coming storm than the sunshine on a grassy summer field. Maybe we are each born inside the garden we are meant to become, if only we would let our wilderness grow as it would desire. Climb its own walls, bloom its own strangely colored flowers. Perhaps the way to satisfy the restlessness inside our own hearts is to worship the ways we are different. After we have ruined each other, he lights my cigarette as he stands over me in the dark.

Killing You Softly

In her eyes are a series of crystalline webs spiraling in toward a center point which they never quite reach, which sparkle and spin as you gaze at her face between the palms of your hands. The more the blood in your veins thrashes against your own skin, the closer and closer you come to falling all the way in. It’s been a long stressful day and here you are on the edge of your weary life, passing you by with every punch of the clock. In a small room with tall windows overlooking vastly sprawling twilight hills, you stand together by only the glow of candlelight. You steady your stare to look deep in her eyes as your hands move to firmly grasp her throat. Those eyes full of oceans erupting into endless waves which pound a pristine beach, the sound of her pulsing silence at your command, nearly deafening as it roars in your ears. She is a huntress, hunted. She with her sinister charm, a spider eating her way through the softening body of her prey, a slow self-inflicted death by suffocation, thin spindles of exquisite torment. Each ragged sound you let fall from her lips is a face in the mirror turning to dust. With every breath, every movement she is watching you. Hungry. Pleading. Desperate. Your fingers spread through the thick of her silken hair as you imagine her taste, the taste of this burning in your body for hers, try to allow yourself a sip while still calculating the inevitable damage you will suffer by her particular poison. How you wish you could turn back time to the way it was before you found yourself in this compromised state, now unable to walk away, unable to resist the terrible knowledge that you want everything those cruel lips have to offer. You move your tongue deep into her, forcing her wide, and with a low moan suck the air from her lungs, teach her to worship the pleasure and brutality of desire. To withhold, to be withheld from, this is the dance, this is the crux of your kind of affection. Destruction. Resurrection. Power. The power to grant and deny control. Your hands are on her breasts now, pinching, caressing, moving expertly as you press and stimulate, the heat between you sending licks of flame down her length through the blossoming folds between her thighs. As your mind fills itself with thoughts of how warm she must be at the glistening center of her prismatic being, how sweet and delicate the way her tenderness would cause your bones to shatter every star from its pierced arrangement in the swollen midnight sky, she says your name over and over again, in blind shameless need. Placing two fingers inside her gaping mouth, you know she is the only evidence left in a desecrated world that humanity can still be pure, still be beautiful in its helplessness, still drip with honeyed wilderness for the forces which will end us all in ruinous screams. You do not promise to stay, you promise to witness. To make of yourself a sacrifice to her sacrifice. Every offering, every touch, is a quiet prayer that some small memory of this night will remain until her flesh and blood abandon this world for good.

// Reach for Me //

As you reach for me
your hands pour through

my thirst hung upon the tips
of your baptismal fire

touch ritual, touch breath
our skies begin
to merge
emerge
reverberate

we, sharing ribs, we,
trading gestures

collecting, reciprocating.

I return always to
you return to
my hands pour forth

for you

how you touch me
from underneath the pain,
cyclic redemption of what you are
how even without skin
held only by the body of

the empty air in this bluefade room

I can feel you move.

.

.

// Fall for You //

You and I
delicate devils
murderous angels falling dustpink
upon the footsteps

of the dark

as I dance you eclipse me
your eyes along my slenderbones

moonglobes thrust into orbital
desire

kiss this grievous heaven
erupt in the mouth of this sweetpain
love as grace as you puncture

rupture resuscitate
my heart.

.

.

// give me more //

We are foaming at the mouth with heavy greed, how it glides through the veins like silk silently threaded alongside joy; thrumming steady but out of sync next to the beats of the hurricane heart you gave away to the ones who do not know how to see the light in the darkness.

Let them go and use your hands to carve a home for yourself inside me. Cross my heart, cross my fingers, untie my secrets and hope to die.

We want more when contentment would require much less. I wonder when you reach for me, pull me close and try to hold on to something neither of us are sure how to name but we can taste the mad tugging in the jaw when it aches, do you feel the stars blowing in the wind? Do you feel the jealous sun sliding through the winter trees, heavy with hunger for centuries of sleep? As you place your fingers in my mouth and I obey, I am not here in this body you crave, I am above the world looking down upon this strange darkening scene where we dissolve in the wine on each other’s tongues, and dance and fall and crumble and disappear.

Dolls that will break are already beautiful. Horses that will run are already free.

I hear the voices of the loudest ones and they sound like insanity draped over a vacancy no one dares to speak about, while inside my skin my sins are screaming. They sound like white noise caught on plastic bags floating down the heels of a crowded city street: dirty, disregarded, excessive, hollow.

They sound like nothing and yet people hand over their lives, their last thin dimes, and their slim cut souls, all these little people like insects trapped, going numb waiting for it to matter, for someone to notice that no one notices anymore. We are homeless, we are hunted, we are gladiators. We are white pearl eyes on fossilized  butterflies, we are filthy money down the drain.

Your hand moves toward me slow, a subtle gesture in the mysterious dark. It does not remember as the heart does not forget, where you and I have been. The body in slow motion betrays the mind, you are warm flesh and erotic games beneath the cold night air in my lungs.

How these fingers thread through the bones, whatever it is we are searching for lives forever in the paper tissue dreams which never left us. They can never leave us. They are the fabric of the moon, the place where the bodies of every ocean in every galaxy connect. They are five thousand red mercurial suns setting along the cyclical edge of time.

You at the back window seat of my mind, you on the lines they took from my hands. How I adore you. How many bloodstained years have I been gone.

.

.

.

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.

.

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