Finding Avalon

There’s an ache inside this room,
Between the pillows and the floor,
An ache that I adore,
Wearing nothing.

A sting aimed to soar,
Exploring the red divine,

Her thoughts are in flight and
I listen to the winds
Of her soul, full of shrill
And cream, buying time
For the ice to melt
Inside her early morning bruise.

As if beauty was death,
The night was done, spilling her
Onto a blue mattress, unsealed
And mislead, looking through her skin for clues.

Stars watch her from their perch,
Soaring above moons on the back of airplanes.
She invites them in to watch her bleed:
Another Color, new to praise.

Eggshell white,
Disco leather whips, the kiss,
The toss and burn flower
Detonated for wet overloads
And vibrations the color of pleased lips

An open seam of butter clouds
Ties her to the bedposts, like it does
All other dolls, not going anywhere…

She is a hostage, prone to pleasure
And long cliff notes, ruby red fingerprints
Of conquistadors and horses with horizontal dreams,
Sharing her scent, leaving tantric instructions
Of boredom between her legs.

A touch of praise, a touch
Of light, in the days of
Autumn’s orange mourn,
Begging for a just golden shiver.

In her eyes, I peeked a smile
A blushing blue, fresh out
The closet, looking surprised.

Flowers are for breakfast.
My tongue will pass no judgment,
Tasting the scream inside her skin,

I am the fool inside her
The cool and even kind,
A circus boy on his knees
Who can’t say no to a dream.

Circle eights around her fingers
Mirror movements with my tongue
A caged and wholly creature
Tamed by the feed.

Cameras will film our story  
A scene away from being an ocean
That sweet and bitter pill
Digesting the core of the moon

Tasting the scent of my lover’s clothes,
Standing in a season of folly,
Wearing Magdalena’s shoes.