A blank sky starts out
and just like that
like embers flicking
popping
rising
from a camp fire
a Universe is on fire
holding hands
twisting fingertips
underneath precious metals
of an Earth
for the sake of intimacy
on black heels
in a month
like August
like seductive and
sweet
she is a golden pear
dangling fresh in the night air
all men have met her
at some point
she becomes bitter
after the picking
after the tasting
after familiarity increases
Separating skin from a tree
is a faint task, like
twisting glass back to sand.
Long, narrow veins exposed to chaos,
leave their limbs. I climb inside
them for hydration.
I’m a fish, shallow in water,
borrowing lungs from
a human.
Don’t make it glacial,
blue is the true color.
It is royal.
It is blood.
I am oxygen and it feels good!
My husband left me sweltering
during the ripe moon. I grew
ripe, too; a full cherry
hunger in a bottle
of Gin.
Then this tree, he’s latched on
to me. I pour my fingernails
in. He knows his strength
matches me tightly.
We seize together on Earth’s early
tremor, and just as I start to peel,
layer by layer,
his exposed veins melt into
venom, he turns me,
my swift hourglass
resets, twisting sand
back into glass.
quick bolt tight lightning
grip, thigh deep
in thick sand
south landing mound
in palm of your hand
hot air
tumbles over bare
back, raw hide lash
prints where cougars
sit
Black panther, I pray
for a taste
of your thread,
silk lessons spinning
deep under
skin
pricked thorns leak
wildly like
we
a gesture
a kiss
a swift, single move
then tongue to tongue
a battle for the best
pulse over pulse
one
sweet
gulp
She wears a wet blue dress
and if you undress her
she is not vulnerable or
violated. She is a curved
and proud body;
fertile.
He is molded. He is ceramic mannequins turning sick
against the sea. Noon splits pavement and silicon swallows
in a frenzied gulp.
She is airless, something to know and fear.
When clouds steal our stars, she calls to the moon, carrying all of her love and loyalty back to shore,
while he steals her pearls
in the dark.
I did not touch yesterday, like I say I did.
My fingerprints are missing.
I lost them on a glass man,
wrapped my hands around
his whiskey sour, like I shouldn’t have.
He mingled with fire over
victory, like a beast gnawing
on my shoulder
I looked over his shadow like I owned him,
but daylight quickly ended, now
here I am. Fingertips dripping
off frozen glass,
as miserable as I planned it,
and here I still sit,
alone and empty-handed.
My soul has hands that feed my mouth
delight boxes marked “poison”.
I have second hands that are language.
I gave up youth for silent lips that
spread too thick. Two plump
pulsating cream puffs injected
with secrecy.
The boxes piled up to a thousand acreage;
a still wall with a calm face,
sipping tea with the Queen of servitude.
I have become a slave to iron curtains
and black rods.
Once upon a decade ago, I slept with
meaty warriors with bull-dog ears.
They carried sturdy death machines that
slaughtered innocence.
I heard them slice my siblings
to hamburger, while my stable body hid
in a homosexual bed.
I bled out of my ears for one tight night,
then woke up to the funerals.
I faced a casket with strawberry frosting
trim, small china pieces laid across
the mahogany lid.
I tipped with warriors, drinking their poison,
swallowing fear in full, single gulps.
They offered me a butchering tool
and I pulled it in, deep through
tissue and cartilage, into the warm cherry
pie that was wrapped inside my body.
I melted with metal. I succumbed to
murderous beasts that carry
angry weapons,
and without useful hands,
or mouth,
I became a box.
There is a book that you do
not know. Hard bound.
Gummy.
It was a long trip.
I took a machete to its ink soaked
dress, paddled through
its mysterious
sea of
bad clams. But he wrote it.
He with his ego gala hidden
underneath his racy
beard. The claps,
the bouquets of fraud that
come calling
when a new page is written,
sealed.
The rules are boundless, without
architecture or
makeup.
There would have been a beefy,
apple pie house
but
a pig’s pen
stamped itself onto Arch’s A-E.
From the start….
crippled pages held compact in
iron arms.
She hang hearts. Seven of them.
Red pumps from flesh addicts,
seven of them.
Seven black suits that took her
dancing, then
to a buttoned up apartment
to unbutton
her dress.
Her white legs shook as she thread
dead chambers,
ashamed
of suits
that dance and bring
red-heads night caps.
She sits. Silent tears escape while
seven men
seep
life, dry.
My stove top is a scalding
temper; overflowing with
ferocious
boiled steam.
My vision is clouded but
I can still see
egotism dripping out of
his over-sized pores.
Someone gave him the body of
a man to hide in. When we
first kissed, his disguise was concrete, at least.
Now, I can see how heaviness
glazes over him, excreting from
inside out.
He is just a pig, with a
fat, round face and
short,
nothing legs.
He does not know that I know.
But he will.
He will know when stove top steam
becomes serene,
after
I thicken the repulsive cream of
his cowardice,
his fear,
his pretentious stench
and pour
it over his puffed-up
self-admiration, and melt
away his disguise.
The sickest pro-listers are stacked
together,
angrily racking
clanking metal brackets,
scratching polished
hard wood.
I started with
those I
could have,
or would have….
but, I shouldn’t have.
They carried luggage weights,
heavy
pounds of spouse cake, tarnished
plates of hatred and
pain.
But, I caved in and waited,
counted thousands of
steep old kingdoms, waiting for left finger
rings to ditch them
or
a needle and thread to
fix their stitches, then
prem
their listed sickness.
Each remained, as did their
conditions,
becoming anchors,
growing rancorous chain links
and brackets.
So, I stacked them
back to,
back together, tethered
by their beastly gear,
fear chewing at their insides like
termites
grinding souvenir ply wood,
starting with those it
might
first bite at.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 