Let the music play

If we could put it to music
it would be your fingers
on my fine tunes,

my lyrics
finding you
in chords that could not exist
before this night.

We choose staying in,
underneath a thick haze
of purple and green.
Your eyes try to match me;
our deepest rhythms
sinking,
flowing,
dancing

naturally. We slip back –
your tongue laced with black
magic –
and I,

knee deep in daydream,
wrapped up in
this dimension,
several chords playing,
all of them in key.

Gripping to the cadence,
dripping with luxury,
we summon our past lives

we consult the angels
of mercy

and forgive every sinner
who ever has sinned.

This is our music.
Saturday night flat –
my bottle of Jack,
your smoke gliding
down my deep
throat

Like clockwork
here we go.

Dystopia

out there
rain lives
and breathes
and falls asleep
the way I want to

instead
I stay

eat cactus

fry worms on black top

undress for men
I don’t want

touch
every
square
inch

like its you

carnal

this does not belong
in a book
or on paper
it should be
blazing across
each existential universe

your immaculate
humility stumbles
my gesture

bathe me in
every movement
that has made
you a man

every echo
is wild

pulsating

carnal

I am

I Met You Today

No pillow comes without residue.
At our age, blessings come in small forms…

hands cradled together,
words buried in sweet breath,
unconditional nights,
uncontrolled…..

Tell me about your exploration, about
fingertips trickling down
courage….
spines do not break easily, do they?

I met you today,
I see your influence and result,
you probably know
that I see through blue eyes,

saturated by the way your fingertips move.

Games

Inhale – deep – suspicious
under cotton clovers
in sharp seconds

a shiver – liquid skin
slithers down my spine
in wet pulse

I have your fingerprints
matched to mine
one – quick – minute

Time is essential – a sport
your goal
not mine

You kick – I lunge
inhale
a deep block
a curve over a thousand threads

stretched – an ultimate match
two pasts
two people

two moments connected
for one final win

How To Sleep In A Gutter When You’re Not Dead

Curl up raw, stranger. Where is your
husband’s thick pockets?
You must be one of those different
colours.

I’m dead on my feet, you’re
sleeping in the gutter. Five days
in February – we both struggle.

Half a dozen snowflakes
ring the city, one man
hangs high above the river
two blocks down –

I can’t get my gown down
when I hear the secrets –
you shiver under the ice
and I like it,

biting my bottom lip, I’m nervous
for the next move.
Who’s it to be? Me or You?
All is well and dead on this side
but you look alive –
try to get a grip around your neck, but
you slump over
the cold.

Where did he go with his large gloves?
Are you beating like a cat fish or more
like drums?
Your colour is looking frozen.
Don’t pull those tears off too early or
you won’t recognize me.

I’m sorry for you, sister, losing
in this land, but when I see your secrets,
I tremble from a cursed realm
and I am ready to fade into the big city,
9 o’clock,
locked up with something like a vacuum cleaner
and let you go.

God Am I Trying

So I come like a box of watercolor,
surrender to water
and Iris.
You are drowned out, on a stretcher,
a small body of
life sucked out of a vacuum.

I missed your heartbeat.
Where did it go?
I found a dumpster chomping
down on fingernails
and he waited….

on 59th and State, he sat,
watching out for backlash
but I am calm.

Blood clots are normal, even when
I am flooded. We gather sand bags to stop
feelings from flowing.
Nobody fels mine grow,
like Ivy, like heavy honeysuckle
taking over a life.

He says it is for the best,
the world is watching,
I am a fuck up,
I know.
I am hard to kill.
But I’m trying.
God am I trying!

Love Letter

Amaranth, on my back, off

the edge of life.
Dangling cords fall
like snakes, I hanged them
there to dry
me out. With you,

it is cold.
I can’t say that. I miss you,
but I do not. Have you
been tempted to rip her
skin off and put mine on?

My back is off
the edge, now
life is seeping through
my toes, amaranth
dangling, a love letter

for you.

Butterfly Wings

Her conversation created craters
around fine dining – she
is one glass too many,
I read her like wine before we sat down.
The light was getting too frisky
when she reached South for
my heart.

Her eyes crossed like a thieves fingers,
pure white bled through.
“I thought I knew you” she said
as I mopped up the puddle of hatred on the floor.

More often than not, I’d plant false
seeds of little baby heartlings
where the girls’ pretty fingers would reach,
but now I have turned.
My shape is funny. It fits like
butterfly wings.
Honest. Divine. Free.

Hourglass

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.