My Belly, My LoveI.We play truth or dare in pheromonesan ancient game sprawledacross bedrooms of ages, legsdangling like lace, a footabove the bedroom floor Two hearts beatand two becomes threeand two are in me, sprawledacross the bathroom floor;the screens ripped on the sliding door.Theres a knot in my palmI cant wring away, theres a filmin the air, from the white moth wings.sweat floats in, it coats my tongueand the phone cord coilsout of control.The moths bet atThe streetlamp glowThe kettles boilingOn the stove.II.We play hide and seek with moralityan ancient game sprawledacross the dark rooms of ages,back alley bastards makingshallow graves in pretty girls wombs.And suddenly, I am Mozarts mother,I am Neros victim, raw against the birthScreaming, Stab here first.III.We play stop and go with lifeA no-win game sprawledatop car tops in cricket songs,streetlights painting green gra
Riddle Me Pinks...Baby takes another hit,she's passedthe point where peripheral visionblurs into her inverted gutand she cries about the virus of societyshe's afraidshe's catching tonightBaby is an oxymoron, murphy's law on mute--the way she'll wastebootlaces in urinalsto see what shape they makewhen they floatleavebumblebee pinstripesand chalk scrawledhalf past noon,I GOT HER PREGNANTon the changing station(an ephemeral epithet,a graffiti-fied gaffe)Oh baby,"this is the artof perfecting denial,"she'll exhalebefore passing to the rightbecause she's just that muchof an insidiousfuck(her palms driplike the festering manifestoesof bad hair dye jobsand thrift store sweaters)Doctor, Doctor, don't botherit's Sunday now; she's alone in a crowd.the children will be coming homefor Christmas and she'slet the cat out again.
dont forgive me becausei flirtwith self-immolation, desire's denigration,youth slipping through asphalt cracksand youbut unlikemy annihilation of my worldthrough annihilation of myself,i fail at youso diaphanously, yet so profoundly;(as if i never really tried at all)and at 2 AM, when the darkemaciates my desires, and i'mwaiting for this train to derail,for you to dragonflykiss my hip,i know:chasing you does as slowlywhat a cigarette does for death
November NightsTime is passive aggressively bipolaron November nights like these:It flees through the forgotten foliageof the season's mid-embrace,flamencoing with the bare branches,cold and ebony,as if to say "I exist."Dear sweet, indifferent world,I can only wish that the lawthat makes the crocusesand narcissi come creepingthrough the March mudcan be cross-applied here,as I attempt to stare intoMercy's blue, elusive eyes.And it is cold but I am conscious;the fall is tragic and afraid.And as the warm fireside colorsfalter in the irresolute facesof redemption and denial,a raccoon raids my garbage cansin hopes of surviving the winter.