convinced that we have come willingly ( Read more... )

three thousand miles later, the sun setting too late in the evening in a sky ripped opened by the sharpened peak of a mountain range, my dear, we have met again: and you have brought home back to me.

i refused the invitation to join him alone in the pantry, where among the oversized jars of jams and spreads he promised the temptation of the forbidden fruit, promised the rush of the taste on the tongue the juice droplets forming between skin parting, like lovers stuck in the second act the partition of intermission lost behind them & swept into ( Read more... )

upon dispatching the bounty hunters of memory, with the deep ocean sunk eyes dripping remorseful the pain of such nostalgic relapse, the folds unravel in the brain, thick gravel brick grey matter loses quick its elasticity and sets once again in motion the evacuation of tomorrow's dream & the ressurection of those lost in youth's mass exodus, their ( Read more... )

we're floating in and out and back and forth and frying ourselves southern, climbing through the limbs of treason, surfaced along the sun with our marrow boiling ( Read more... )

we're not the problem, child.

love is still just a four-letter word.

upon the rumor of her surrender, the blue suede eye of sincerity blushed in defiance the cartwheel kids kicked the gut belly loose from deep inside, legs locked between the staggered skyline of bones and bodies in sinful motion  howls leaning against the kickboard and loosening the knot of taught rope keeping woman and man and yesterday apart, ( Read more... )

the dusty sill gathers empties and ashes and wails mishchevious, claiming ownership to the filth, yr eyes reflecting over it in the mirrored window that faces the building next door the beer is never enough the smoke is never enough, all we really need is a partner in crime, someone to call when the morning bites at the shoulder blades and the eyes ( Read more... )

is it too late to speak of the autumn percussion winds,
of the thin-lipped queen who spat out vowels
and love poems
like a stranger's semen-
those months were webbed together in burnt sepia tones,
half-rotted and yet ripe with flesh and blood and sex

everyone has become a target,
a pin-cushion for my maggots
mere cardboard cut-outs of human
that brush my ( Read more... )