the seamstress in you, were we to wrestle would skin for a ribbon my port wine stain
count the times you’ve asked and now you know, a lip smacked in appetite satisfying old questions ‘knowing why I am so stable’ ‘why I am so strong’ you should never waver in your asking in the undressing
you should cauter for a sequin my birthmark, like your dress ...
Your eyes are in an ice storm, baby red-raw see underneath your glassy shield a coral and curious fish sniffing tips of fingers probing then turn to leap, plastic sick with wings that make you yelp from out your bowl.
You are dancing in a hurricane, wild ballerina see you lose yourself in chaotic patterns yearning to perfect and home in to the source of the display of bees drunk on the beats of their own wings.
where i swallowed myself in a swan song dream (revised
In days to come they will merge like one grey river into which nothing will flourish or breathe or whisper a dear true line of love. It disables every movement, It rots my crumbling columns Onto which my awkward footsteps trip.
It had once felt so unattainable yet by some breeze’s tender stroke bespoken to whatever spell could drag by the hair this stuporous fledgling towards a smidgeon of beauty. and a sense of refinement.
To forget is this insane?????? This mission I’ve been leading. ...
i breath her breathing wakes me she smokes cigarettes so she can see her breath so the space between us is perceptible.
ii She nurses her highball like she’s balancing on a matchstick in an arsonist’s bedroom. Lipstick red as Moscow, chestnut hair, her roots showing dark and eyes of dead-ends, bad men and rhinestone teardrops.
I’m on a trip for biscuits and she’s the terminus. I play a line...