by Jenny Picciotto
My blood runs
thick and red
between my legs.
Wolf,
teeth bared,
eyes flashing.
Red fear,
Red anger
Red Danger.
I place my red
heart,
beating,
bare,
into your hands.
My heart, exposed,
bloody,
vulnerable.
My blood flows,
recirculating in my
body.
No Where
for the anger
to go.
An image.
A woman:
eyes glazed
in the
stupid
seductive
pose of the harlot.
Why do you love
me
this way. Not myself.
The image of self effacement.
What is the harm
of acting out
your fantasy?
Your precious fantasy.
This
is the way
you
imagine
me...
Stripped of self awareness
out of touch with my own
strength
feeling.
A puppet of your desire.
My heart cries out
against the invisible
chains
you place around me.
My sexuality
The mindlessness of a
possessed
girl
without self determination.
Her moods
posture
dictated by the man.
Why is this an attractive image to you?
Do you so enjoy me
stripped
of my strength,
stripped
of my sense of self.
Sex with my body
only
is not
making love.
For there is no
recognition
of the individual
to love.
Fucking my body
is an unconscious act
of
animal passion. But
I
am not there
with you.
My blood flows red,
into my eyes,
down my thighs.
Crucified,
this body,
by the rhythms of nature.
Sacrificed,
this body,
for the development of my children.
Used,
this body,
for your pleasure.
Alone.
You leave me to bleed-
the anger of my heart
silent
in the ecstacy
of your orgasm.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
A Cheer for the Dwarf Clown
by Jay Coral
thank you dwarf clown
if i were a child again
i will invite you on my birthday party
and you will be playing man-child with us
you and your man's body and short limbs
will be dolls and toy soldiers to our delight
you will be a walking sphinx to gape-struck mothers
haha imagine the circus of confusion in their faces
your face will be covered by a mascara
but us children will not see through your bulging eyes
the ugliness you hide nor your soul's lacerations
after i blow the candle and make a wish
i will tell you you are a clean shapen creature
then i will smash the cake in your face
you will growl and show us your pointy incisors
but it will be a happy growl.
thank you dwarf clown
if i were a child again
i will invite you on my birthday party
and you will be playing man-child with us
you and your man's body and short limbs
will be dolls and toy soldiers to our delight
you will be a walking sphinx to gape-struck mothers
haha imagine the circus of confusion in their faces
your face will be covered by a mascara
but us children will not see through your bulging eyes
the ugliness you hide nor your soul's lacerations
after i blow the candle and make a wish
i will tell you you are a clean shapen creature
then i will smash the cake in your face
you will growl and show us your pointy incisors
but it will be a happy growl.
WHO QUOTETH A BIRD?
by Randall Rogers
OF ONE THING I AM SURE
NEVERMORE
WILL I ALLOW A DRUNKEN
CROW TO FLY AROUND MY
HOME
NOR AGAIN WILL THEY FIND ME
BLOODY AND PUKING
CURBSIDE IN THE GUTTER
DYING, THEN DEAD
SAYING AMONG THE CRITICAL ACCLAIM
HE WAS A GREAT WRITER
AND YOU KNOW THEY THINK AND ARE ALONE
SO MUCH
WELL,
THEY ALMOST HAVE TO DRINK
OR SMOKE
TO STOKE THE CREATIVE FIRES
INSPIRATION
GET IT DOWN FAST FLOWING
THE PROSE WRITING THE AUTHOR
MUSIC PLAYING YOUR WRITING OR TYPING HAND(S)
HEMINGWAY DRANK WHILE HE WROTE
SO DID BUKOWSKI
AND ALL THOSE ALCOHOLICS LIKE CHEEVER
KEROUAC
SINCLAIR (MIRACLE HE MADE IT TO SIXTY SIX THEY SAY) LEWIS
FITZGERALD
RIMBAUD
DYLAN THOMAS
CHRISTOPHER HITTCENS?
ALL NOTORIOUS DRUNKS
HOW MANY OF THEM ACTUALLY
WROTE DRUNK OR LIKE CHEEVER I THINK
HE WOKE UP EARLY AND CLOCK WATCHED WRITING
UNTIL TWELVE NOON THEN THE SQUEAK OF THE LIQOUR CABINET OPENING
WOULD SING ALL AFTERNOON AND INTO THE NIGHT
I THINK HE STOPPED WRITING TO DRINK
THESE OTHER ALCOHOLICS I WOULD THINK WOULD HAVE TO BE
DRUNK OR HUNG OVER WHILE WRITING SOME OF THEIR WORKS
EVEN IF THIS WAS NOT THEIR ESTABLISHED WRITING ROUTINE
LIKE ME RETURNING HOME DRUNK FROM THE BAR AND WHIPPING OUT
SEVEN TO TEN POEMS
THE IDEAS WORD SOUND SING TRUE OR ODD
COOL
NAILING THE POEM
LIKE A TEENAGE CHINESE DIVER
OR GYMNAST
LIKE A GANDY DANCER HAMMERS A RAILROAD TIE SPIKE
LIKE THE NAILS THROUGH JESUS’ WRISTS AND ANKLES
THE BLULLETS FIRED INTO GHANDI’S SLIM FRAME
THE GRENADES AND FULSADE LET LOOSE ON SADAT
BOOTH BLASTING LINCOLN’S NOGGIN
AND KENNEDY’S LURCHING ABOUT LOSING HIS HEAD
(AND WHAT ABOUT THAT LOYAL WIFE SCAMPERING OUT OF THE CAR IN SUCH A FRENETIC HIS-HEAD’S-GONE-AND-I’M-OUT-OF-HERE UNLADYLIKE CLAMBERING OUT THE BACK OF THE CONVERTIBLE, ‘A PUSHING SECRET SERVICE GUYS OUT OF HER WAY AS SHE SELFISHLY LIKE A CORNERED CAT SHE CLAWED HER WAY TO WHAT SHE THOUGHT MIGHT BE SAFETY. HOW UNSEEMLY TO FIGHT SO DESPERATELY FOR LIFE? SHE COULD HAVE “STOOD BY HER MAN” AND OFFERED UP HER CRANIUM FOR BLASTING TOO. HER SELFISH SCAMPER TO PRESERVE HER LIFE AFTER HER HUSBAND’S HEAD EXPLODED LIKE A SMASHED WATERMELON INTO PIECES WAS JUST DOWNRIGHT UN FIRST LADY LIKE!)
ARRANGED WORDS
AS DEADLY AND DANGEROUS
ENLIGHTENING AND FUN
AS THE AUTO BIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X
OR JOEY: PORTAIT OF A HIT MAN
THE BOOK AND MOVIE THE GODFATHER
THE ANARCHIST'S COOKBOOK
AND ALL THE METH AND HOW TO MAKE HOMEMADE DRUGS
SITES NOW ON THE INTERNET
COMBINED WITH THE GREAT FOR FREE PORN
TIME AND PRIVACY ENOUGH FOR A SMOKE AND
A GOOD INTERNET KINK DRIVEN WANK
TO SUM, SHORT POEMS, INAPPROPRIATE OR TABOO
SUBJECT MATTER, MADE SEMI PALATABLE
INTERESTINGLY PUT
AND EASY TO UNDERSTAND
FOR IDIOTS WHO ACTUALLY GO
FOR BUKOWSKI’S DRIVEL
LIKE ME
OF ONE THING I AM SURE
NEVERMORE
WILL I ALLOW A DRUNKEN
CROW TO FLY AROUND MY
HOME
NOR AGAIN WILL THEY FIND ME
BLOODY AND PUKING
CURBSIDE IN THE GUTTER
DYING, THEN DEAD
SAYING AMONG THE CRITICAL ACCLAIM
HE WAS A GREAT WRITER
AND YOU KNOW THEY THINK AND ARE ALONE
SO MUCH
WELL,
THEY ALMOST HAVE TO DRINK
OR SMOKE
TO STOKE THE CREATIVE FIRES
INSPIRATION
GET IT DOWN FAST FLOWING
THE PROSE WRITING THE AUTHOR
MUSIC PLAYING YOUR WRITING OR TYPING HAND(S)
HEMINGWAY DRANK WHILE HE WROTE
SO DID BUKOWSKI
AND ALL THOSE ALCOHOLICS LIKE CHEEVER
KEROUAC
SINCLAIR (MIRACLE HE MADE IT TO SIXTY SIX THEY SAY) LEWIS
FITZGERALD
RIMBAUD
DYLAN THOMAS
CHRISTOPHER HITTCENS?
ALL NOTORIOUS DRUNKS
HOW MANY OF THEM ACTUALLY
WROTE DRUNK OR LIKE CHEEVER I THINK
HE WOKE UP EARLY AND CLOCK WATCHED WRITING
UNTIL TWELVE NOON THEN THE SQUEAK OF THE LIQOUR CABINET OPENING
WOULD SING ALL AFTERNOON AND INTO THE NIGHT
I THINK HE STOPPED WRITING TO DRINK
THESE OTHER ALCOHOLICS I WOULD THINK WOULD HAVE TO BE
DRUNK OR HUNG OVER WHILE WRITING SOME OF THEIR WORKS
EVEN IF THIS WAS NOT THEIR ESTABLISHED WRITING ROUTINE
LIKE ME RETURNING HOME DRUNK FROM THE BAR AND WHIPPING OUT
SEVEN TO TEN POEMS
THE IDEAS WORD SOUND SING TRUE OR ODD
COOL
NAILING THE POEM
LIKE A TEENAGE CHINESE DIVER
OR GYMNAST
LIKE A GANDY DANCER HAMMERS A RAILROAD TIE SPIKE
LIKE THE NAILS THROUGH JESUS’ WRISTS AND ANKLES
THE BLULLETS FIRED INTO GHANDI’S SLIM FRAME
THE GRENADES AND FULSADE LET LOOSE ON SADAT
BOOTH BLASTING LINCOLN’S NOGGIN
AND KENNEDY’S LURCHING ABOUT LOSING HIS HEAD
(AND WHAT ABOUT THAT LOYAL WIFE SCAMPERING OUT OF THE CAR IN SUCH A FRENETIC HIS-HEAD’S-GONE-AND-I’M-OUT-OF-HERE UNLADYLIKE CLAMBERING OUT THE BACK OF THE CONVERTIBLE, ‘A PUSHING SECRET SERVICE GUYS OUT OF HER WAY AS SHE SELFISHLY LIKE A CORNERED CAT SHE CLAWED HER WAY TO WHAT SHE THOUGHT MIGHT BE SAFETY. HOW UNSEEMLY TO FIGHT SO DESPERATELY FOR LIFE? SHE COULD HAVE “STOOD BY HER MAN” AND OFFERED UP HER CRANIUM FOR BLASTING TOO. HER SELFISH SCAMPER TO PRESERVE HER LIFE AFTER HER HUSBAND’S HEAD EXPLODED LIKE A SMASHED WATERMELON INTO PIECES WAS JUST DOWNRIGHT UN FIRST LADY LIKE!)
ARRANGED WORDS
AS DEADLY AND DANGEROUS
ENLIGHTENING AND FUN
AS THE AUTO BIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X
OR JOEY: PORTAIT OF A HIT MAN
THE BOOK AND MOVIE THE GODFATHER
THE ANARCHIST'S COOKBOOK
AND ALL THE METH AND HOW TO MAKE HOMEMADE DRUGS
SITES NOW ON THE INTERNET
COMBINED WITH THE GREAT FOR FREE PORN
TIME AND PRIVACY ENOUGH FOR A SMOKE AND
A GOOD INTERNET KINK DRIVEN WANK
TO SUM, SHORT POEMS, INAPPROPRIATE OR TABOO
SUBJECT MATTER, MADE SEMI PALATABLE
INTERESTINGLY PUT
AND EASY TO UNDERSTAND
FOR IDIOTS WHO ACTUALLY GO
FOR BUKOWSKI’S DRIVEL
LIKE ME
It's Sunday
by Joan McNerney
Your laughter
comes in cascades when
I toss your curly hair
tickling those big ears
with long blades of grass.
We stop at the lake startling
frogs just before they leap
away. Listen to squirrels brush
over carpets of crunchy leaves.
You turn to hold me hold me
hurry it's late. O Michael
pink clouds ribbon heaven and
I want your arms around me forever
Your laughter
comes in cascades when
I toss your curly hair
tickling those big ears
with long blades of grass.
We stop at the lake startling
frogs just before they leap
away. Listen to squirrels brush
over carpets of crunchy leaves.
You turn to hold me hold me
hurry it's late. O Michael
pink clouds ribbon heaven and
I want your arms around me forever
Il Piacere (Pleasure)
The Second Hump invites its friends to view Il Piacere (Pleasure), a work of words and art by Leila A. Fortier at:
http://camelsaloongallery.blogspot.com/2010/09/il-piacere.html
http://camelsaloongallery.blogspot.com/2010/09/il-piacere.html
Ignition
or Algebraic Sequencing of
Double-Helix Nightmares Told in Real-Time
Minus the "Whole Truth & Nothing But the Truth"
All the While Dreaming of a Future in Astroscience
“To be young, to have a thirst for society,
to be hungry for a woman” Balzac in “Le Père Goriot.”
by J. R. Pearson
1.
You have two fingers & a wall socket
full of lightning. Insert. Repeat
until an unexplainable thirst for iron holds.
Take a short break. Get to know yourself a little.
Body image fading down corridors of television night.
Bright ghosts burning blue haze thru the sky's broken bones.
Welcome back!.. to your muted mouth glittered in hot gold.
To liquid sand from a poisoned silver skin.
You must believe this can all be summed up by the deaf
immensity of snow & your hatred of anything dead-white.
Instead, imagine a new body. A whole new you
plus no additional charge nocturnal cinema!
Dreams that come on in desert night like live-wire voodoo.
Think: braille bred in the bone
the texture of flowers that open tombs of suspect sentences.
Picture: sky tablecloths into 9 volt verbs
pressed to taste-buds.
Speak: this feels so unbelievable
without some kind of chemical dependency!
Wonder: do you have to sell skin to the sunrise?
Answer: no fine print written on the underside of eyelids.
Promise: as a fact all that's possible is a hard blink.
A tongue contorts into your arms
just the right distance apart.
Your heart is an eyelid curled with fingers.
Your heart is a snow-bright cataract.
Your heart is opening a large wet eye.
Your heart is an oven. You're ignition.
2.
Just think of it as the blind bandwidth
of tongue touching tongue.
The riddled rain in bubble casting of innocent falling light.
Thru an open iris the desert swims into mind
& unseen hands prepare volcanoes
for a distinct country's recasting.
It's serious. Thoughts full of august shade,
you forget that black boils
into moons rising beneath fingernails
into spoons over an open flame
into an addict's wish-sharpened needle
into ignitable veins clawed up arms
into this whole thing that keeps gibbering
a voice in my head and if I focus
on its mouth I can change the words
but they never never stop coming out
so I just form syllables into smoke rings.
Do you remember what mountains felt like as a child?
Do you remember what the skies were like as a child?
Wait! The moon's shade just arrived, watch starlight fall
like rhythm behind the eye for missing breath.
Don't worry, this can all be healed
with a scalpel's width & lungs spread like wings.
We're talking genetics honey.
Double-helix cash money.
Pain-pink pills & the cotton-crawl of a quasar
thru your chest. Put the universe to your mouth.
It's ignition. Decapitate your cybernetic girlfriend
with riffs from a lightningaxe. Ignition.
Maybe a sigh of the times?
That was rhetorical.
How many Richters will it take to raise the dead:
you're two adjectives away from the great American Killer.
3.
Born gutter smoke, wing welt & dance done,
nothing left on the dream hill leaves you felt washed.
Be whatever you have.
Harp-fisted angel of naked death for one.
Ephemeral scream fleshed to a golden
brown velocity for two. Open your mouth: a nation
of fireflies lift off from teeth bleemed to a smolder.
It was then I knew you would eat me alive.
It was then I knew the pleasure of drowning.
My burial plans include evaporation.
My burial plans include doppelgängers.
My burial plans include space-time.
My burial is the "blind crease in the song."
This poem has a pulse, proud as a spine.
Hold it! I remember you clear as an ice-age sold into sunlight
:whisp of c4 unfolded thru the flick of an eye
:nitro rubbed into lipstick a shade higher than plasma
:tar-dark loadstone in eyeliner: left a phrase in my head
:bones are a beach-blank canvas dreaming a still life;
tell me the sweet taste of twilight won't hold
in the second coming of your last breath.
Don't kid yourself honey. I know the temperature
that turns ice to fractured femurs.
Anger swims clear under its own weight.
Smoke flowers in your mind.
Brain full of bush flame. A dance detonates down limbs.
Seamless as a held breath that pulls fingers into fists.
Your iris blooms rivers.
It was at this time I knew you as the sharpened wind
in my chest. It was at this time we both saw this leading
to an event of perfect negative motion....
like nightmares without all the drama.
I have an irrational fear of dying kindly.
Promise: you'll shoot me into the sun.
4.
One by one a year of nights flash thru your face.
One by one I am a thousand untouched pages.
One by one syllables creep from your mouth in socks,
careful not to wake the brick of shade
with eyes like snow-drowned caves in the corner
of your mind. Volcano behind the hairline.
It's the lifting laughter that seeds the feral storm.
Glacial grift of the desert's slow advance
ripens in us like a haloed anger & heat stammers
into memory. This encrypted silence between us
is troubled with sun. For a moment, let's examine the topography
washed up on the corners of your mouth.
All opulence reduce to surf.
It cannot shake tomorrow; we are just recently a pattern!
Let's cycle thru this sequencing
& become the sole survivors of inertia's mistaken verve.
We're talking planetary erasure here.
Sol finally turns off its megaphone, we can sleep.
We've shaken the dice together.
It's all written before the advent of thought:
Pre-prophetic post-apocalypse melody-strung notes
by hoofbeat, heartboat, & heft that won't float
plus (for the first 30 callers) a sing-sung muffle
of prayer beads abstracted
from winged deified, mummified, exemplified
curious corpse that resists eyesight.
The cicadas are building in my spine
to heaven
to madness.
5.
Cure me honey & recant your favorite speech:
I, anonymous uterus of the universe
gave birth to you.
Four score & 15 minutes ago
(I am talking universal minutes!)
you were nothing without me:
a brilliant paper cut
a bloom in the blank between dreams
a vertigo curled around my cortex
a polyphonic thought passed into cloud
a S dash O dash S spelled in blind need
That not withstanding, there you were.
All choking wet & focus of light.
Arithmetic or arrhythmia? Doesn't matter.
After that I couldn't stop talking
about your unbelievable torso.
After that your exhale hit
me right between the eyes.
After that you were leftovers blown to bones.
After that you were banked
evangelical particle chances of ascension:
a placid face dropped in ripe ponds:
floods gushed thru the gate
left unlocked in your chest.
For now. Sleep. Beautiful, sleep.
Rumor acts like a mirror.
When we k ss your eyes d sappear.
When you walk that swing
my abdomen turns to mud. Again.
Your flesh, the last isthmus.
Your flesh, the last desert.
Your flesh, the last fossilized footprint.
Your flesh, the last ripe peach.
Your flesh, the final blackbird.
Copper sands crawl hand-pressed cliffs;
boulders never roll uphill
so let's trade minds & talk about me:
there he is blind lips in midnight shade.
Said he wants to feel your skull
on his fingertips. When lips meet
he whispers to his hands
that know your spine like a memory.
Says when you touch his ears fill with surf.
Wants your fingers to pound him into ivory
like an old-fashioned pianola...
& that's just about everything you'll ever need.
to be hungry for a woman” Balzac in “Le Père Goriot.”
by J. R. Pearson
1.
You have two fingers & a wall socket
full of lightning. Insert. Repeat
until an unexplainable thirst for iron holds.
Take a short break. Get to know yourself a little.
Body image fading down corridors of television night.
Bright ghosts burning blue haze thru the sky's broken bones.
Welcome back!.. to your muted mouth glittered in hot gold.
To liquid sand from a poisoned silver skin.
You must believe this can all be summed up by the deaf
immensity of snow & your hatred of anything dead-white.
Instead, imagine a new body. A whole new you
plus no additional charge nocturnal cinema!
Dreams that come on in desert night like live-wire voodoo.
Think: braille bred in the bone
the texture of flowers that open tombs of suspect sentences.
Picture: sky tablecloths into 9 volt verbs
pressed to taste-buds.
Speak: this feels so unbelievable
without some kind of chemical dependency!
Wonder: do you have to sell skin to the sunrise?
Answer: no fine print written on the underside of eyelids.
Promise: as a fact all that's possible is a hard blink.
A tongue contorts into your arms
just the right distance apart.
Your heart is an eyelid curled with fingers.
Your heart is a snow-bright cataract.
Your heart is opening a large wet eye.
Your heart is an oven. You're ignition.
2.
Just think of it as the blind bandwidth
of tongue touching tongue.
The riddled rain in bubble casting of innocent falling light.
Thru an open iris the desert swims into mind
& unseen hands prepare volcanoes
for a distinct country's recasting.
It's serious. Thoughts full of august shade,
you forget that black boils
into moons rising beneath fingernails
into spoons over an open flame
into an addict's wish-sharpened needle
into ignitable veins clawed up arms
into this whole thing that keeps gibbering
a voice in my head and if I focus
on its mouth I can change the words
but they never never stop coming out
so I just form syllables into smoke rings.
Do you remember what mountains felt like as a child?
Do you remember what the skies were like as a child?
Wait! The moon's shade just arrived, watch starlight fall
like rhythm behind the eye for missing breath.
Don't worry, this can all be healed
with a scalpel's width & lungs spread like wings.
We're talking genetics honey.
Double-helix cash money.
Pain-pink pills & the cotton-crawl of a quasar
thru your chest. Put the universe to your mouth.
It's ignition. Decapitate your cybernetic girlfriend
with riffs from a lightningaxe. Ignition.
Maybe a sigh of the times?
That was rhetorical.
How many Richters will it take to raise the dead:
you're two adjectives away from the great American Killer.
3.
Born gutter smoke, wing welt & dance done,
nothing left on the dream hill leaves you felt washed.
Be whatever you have.
Harp-fisted angel of naked death for one.
Ephemeral scream fleshed to a golden
brown velocity for two. Open your mouth: a nation
of fireflies lift off from teeth bleemed to a smolder.
It was then I knew you would eat me alive.
It was then I knew the pleasure of drowning.
My burial plans include evaporation.
My burial plans include doppelgängers.
My burial plans include space-time.
My burial is the "blind crease in the song."
This poem has a pulse, proud as a spine.
Hold it! I remember you clear as an ice-age sold into sunlight
:whisp of c4 unfolded thru the flick of an eye
:nitro rubbed into lipstick a shade higher than plasma
:tar-dark loadstone in eyeliner: left a phrase in my head
:bones are a beach-blank canvas dreaming a still life;
tell me the sweet taste of twilight won't hold
in the second coming of your last breath.
Don't kid yourself honey. I know the temperature
that turns ice to fractured femurs.
Anger swims clear under its own weight.
Smoke flowers in your mind.
Brain full of bush flame. A dance detonates down limbs.
Seamless as a held breath that pulls fingers into fists.
Your iris blooms rivers.
It was at this time I knew you as the sharpened wind
in my chest. It was at this time we both saw this leading
to an event of perfect negative motion....
like nightmares without all the drama.
I have an irrational fear of dying kindly.
Promise: you'll shoot me into the sun.
4.
One by one a year of nights flash thru your face.
One by one I am a thousand untouched pages.
One by one syllables creep from your mouth in socks,
careful not to wake the brick of shade
with eyes like snow-drowned caves in the corner
of your mind. Volcano behind the hairline.
It's the lifting laughter that seeds the feral storm.
Glacial grift of the desert's slow advance
ripens in us like a haloed anger & heat stammers
into memory. This encrypted silence between us
is troubled with sun. For a moment, let's examine the topography
washed up on the corners of your mouth.
All opulence reduce to surf.
It cannot shake tomorrow; we are just recently a pattern!
Let's cycle thru this sequencing
& become the sole survivors of inertia's mistaken verve.
We're talking planetary erasure here.
Sol finally turns off its megaphone, we can sleep.
We've shaken the dice together.
It's all written before the advent of thought:
Pre-prophetic post-apocalypse melody-strung notes
by hoofbeat, heartboat, & heft that won't float
plus (for the first 30 callers) a sing-sung muffle
of prayer beads abstracted
from winged deified, mummified, exemplified
curious corpse that resists eyesight.
The cicadas are building in my spine
to heaven
to madness.
5.
Cure me honey & recant your favorite speech:
I, anonymous uterus of the universe
gave birth to you.
Four score & 15 minutes ago
(I am talking universal minutes!)
you were nothing without me:
a brilliant paper cut
a bloom in the blank between dreams
a vertigo curled around my cortex
a polyphonic thought passed into cloud
a S dash O dash S spelled in blind need
That not withstanding, there you were.
All choking wet & focus of light.
Arithmetic or arrhythmia? Doesn't matter.
After that I couldn't stop talking
about your unbelievable torso.
After that your exhale hit
me right between the eyes.
After that you were leftovers blown to bones.
After that you were banked
evangelical particle chances of ascension:
a placid face dropped in ripe ponds:
floods gushed thru the gate
left unlocked in your chest.
For now. Sleep. Beautiful, sleep.
Rumor acts like a mirror.
When we k ss your eyes d sappear.
When you walk that swing
my abdomen turns to mud. Again.
Your flesh, the last isthmus.
Your flesh, the last desert.
Your flesh, the last fossilized footprint.
Your flesh, the last ripe peach.
Your flesh, the final blackbird.
Copper sands crawl hand-pressed cliffs;
boulders never roll uphill
so let's trade minds & talk about me:
there he is blind lips in midnight shade.
Said he wants to feel your skull
on his fingertips. When lips meet
he whispers to his hands
that know your spine like a memory.
Says when you touch his ears fill with surf.
Wants your fingers to pound him into ivory
like an old-fashioned pianola...
& that's just about everything you'll ever need.
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