Writers are spooky creatures. We concern ourselves too often with every sinister, seductive, tragic thing, pin our skin to brutal sensations and wait.
We seem to imagine there’s a puzzle inside of us that fits into the puzzle inside of everything. Such arrogance, such faith. Everyone is a clue. Every touch is annihilation. Every face is the possibility of salvation or the grave.
your silence lives inside me
snakes around the tender parts
that hurt and beg,
that would crawl a thousand miles on holy water to
drown you underneath.
while i’m busy with carving sandcastles, hiding
from the sun and servicing the afternoon,
your silence pours hot ocean waves over my chest,
lights a cigarette and
spends the night.
it wets the cunning valleys of my body down
in streams, courses through my veins
as i imagine your
my knees on the pavement, i’m praying for you
to remember my
your silence watches me
tongues the carnal wreckage of my darkness
licks the burning pages, tears and
undone by beautiful delusion,
i know what this looks like
and what it does to you.
a single butterfly moves its wings
inside a shot glass
between my teeth
on the other side
of the world.
my perversion of you is handfuls of
machine fingers measuring my neck
dressing and undressing me in animal skin
shed by the gods who walked a dying earth
i press my limbs against dreams with rose petals for
gasping at the gasoline air you would feed me
but draw instead back in.
your silence it lives
striking match after
my sex in your mouth like
summer melting glass over steel city buildings
but i know better
that all we ever truly seek
to erect is
that the only real stimulation
is a taste of the torture of desire inside
a mind that finds its own reflection beautiful
in the awe struck through it by
wondering at the strangeness of
twisted creature as
the glory of art,
the hunger of passion,
the fall and rise of the crave to give and receive pleasure,
is ultimately a swimming out
in the heavy hopes of
getting beyond it to a
place of peace.
you before me with your face
and your tears in my
we seek to know how to save
ourselves, how to release ourselves of
something we must break free of, some flawed way of thinking or being from which we
we want to know, ultimately, intimately, in raw human form,
the gripping power of our own
we want to be one with the Self beyond the self,
the Self that is free of these bodies we
obsess over, these alien bodies with their demented burning needs and their curious imperfections.
art and sex are creative
acts of faith, acts of defiance,
little spinning feathers of death.
the blood and sweat,
the pulse of this life,
the advancing pursuit of