Against Time

Dear Young Man,

I saw your skin smooth like the fountain of youth,
pouring down your river,
your delicate body of water.

Your body is a peach,
a firm seed planted in your centre,
ready to harvest in the soil of fertility.

I once took your age and manipulated it.
My skin was an innocent organ,
but my mind played ignorant instruments
and I danced to drums,
too drunk to
notice hands like yours, trembling
down my back side,
searching for my treasure.

I was a golden egg, cracking over a camp fire,
cooking from the inside, out,  flirting
with the fruit of the Earth,

and now, Young Man, I feel naivety drip from
your skin, mixing with my worn complexion as
I grind against your skin,
searching for your core,
going back,
back ward in time.

The Eggs Are Dead In The Kitchen

The eggs are dead in the kitchen;
an ex-lover is dead in
the bedroom,
under the sheets –
posing as silk.

I try to convince the ceiling
of my intelligence.
Laying on my back for three minutes;
faking fever.

The eggs are dead in the kitchen;
the coffee is growing mold – I am
polluted like the grout in
the shower where he
pulls and pulls
satisfaction debilitates his words.
Till he cannot
tell me that the eggs are dead
in the kitchen.