Skull Crushed

He mounts himself before me
un-zips his stiff skin,
wraps his violent arms around me – to crush

against his ribs. I brush his chest,
boiling veins coil through me,
eyes bulge from my head.

His affection is silent. I see through
muscles and bone – his frail components.
They cannot move. He refuses.

I lay my soft nature over his void.
He is unaware. His nourishment is silent.
He moans. I am starved.

He is heavy in hand and heart, dangles his love on a brick,
then hits me with it. I swell – with thirst,
hungry for his deep devotion,

for his full, dark desire to tie me to him,
vein to vein,
lung to lung,
bone to bone

forever.

For My Friend Who Looks For Raccoon Feces On Her Back Porch

We do not have friendship,
or handshake,
or hug,

or your banal Tupperware parties.

You do not pout your lips in
sympathy when thoughts
of
my china doll bite your cheeks.

We do not plan swing-slide
adventures
for little skinny
blonde boys
and girls.

I do not smile and nod
as silly intoxication drags
misery out of your voice anymore.

But, you are my friend, soberly watching
for Raccoon feces, while your
husband throws the TV at you.

Once, I watched with clean eyes, while his dirty
ones stabbed you
with a sharp
pint.

Your voice never drags that up when
you are sober,

you only speak about the Raccoon’s.

Fire Juice

My mouth broils as he Ogre’s around
our apartment. Things,
things,
little things,
severely minuscule things
are everywhere,
out of place,
unclean.

His small feet stomp inflammation
into our feeble floors.
His small hands run away from
his body
to find me,
to strangle me!

I watch from underneath
couch cushions, where crumbs of
yesterday lay sullen until
they are found out later
and
sucked away by his mean vacuum cleaner.

He calls,
he calls me out…

angry laughter speeds from his
black callousness to
my eardrums. I hear them explode.

He stomps with plague.
He stomps to me. Ripping me from
haven, his touch ignites my mouth
filled with fire juice

and
all I can do is spit!