peel

Idol eyes on me,
determined as spears. My
ripe lashes stray to your
Elysian leather jacket,
alight on your midnight head.
Milklight drips off my skin,
edging into shadow,
dappling your feet with all our
opal-flavored energy. So
full, in your solar gaze.
Yield, says me, and I
obey.
Under the whole of my soul, a concrete fleet
invades my gravity, doubling the beat.
Naked yellow walls are
soaking up a desert heat, making me
thirsty, unable to speak.
Ever caught on this wheel, turning fate into fate;
absorb me, I’m real.
Don’t go away. Wait.

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stone sin

I ache for your words,
for the way they sank into my soul,
like barbed wire, beach sand, and rock and roll;
kissed me soundly until my breath was gone
told me gently that the world was –
wrong and we were –
right.
Don’t let the floral arrangements keep you
from crashing through my window anymore –
shatter glass onto my floor,
and leave the orchids weeping in despair,
without a care.

nuke

In the silence of your
nuclear blast I found
the substance of what I will
use to save the world.
I’ve lost a lot in your mind,
lost a lot in your eyes,
found it all again when
we destroyed the universe.
Our cadaver garden,
has perfectly straight rows,
limbs erect from the ground,
stiff, without their blood flow,
is it spring or winter?
these were all beheaded,
is it daytime or nightfall?
who can tell for all the storms?
We never meant to-
but we did,
and I thought if I killed the world,
you would be by my side.

an unacknowledged prank

You were never real,
of all the nasty tricks.
Under apathetic skylines your
pathetic posturing is the most
repellant sore, split
open, you are simply a
miserly magician,
illusionist, clown, deserter,
sadistic fucking peasant!
Every word
dipped in the ink of sacrilege lies,
yearning for earnest
overtures which were not yours,
using the loosest flatteries,
wiping on shame with sponges,
overcast eloquence,
underestimating a goddess?
Like freeing a spider who has learnt revenge!
Death is too good for you!
Nooses are merciful, as your
eyes of manic mirage
veer out of view,
ending any empathy,
respect, truly:
god is not real;
or he is only cheap fiction.

savior

I saw your arms in the curves of boulders,
tantalizing spheres
bellowing glory in Pythian games,
the nectarous sweat of our blasphemy,
the spirits run sparks
over our bodies;
not bodies, our
souls.
Souls?
No, gods and myths are more,
we writhe into our deification,
smashing through mortal walls,
the caves of our phantasmic flesh alighting,
the pores of our ghostly surfaces thriving
in the touch of one another,
the whispers of touches overthrow our senses,
because our whispers are immortality,
and they mean wisdom and anguish,
they mean firelight and wind,
they are life and death,
when we whisper,
we make love,
and we breathe our endlessness
through each other’s lungs
with the abandon of Creators,
the toxicity of everlasting life.

hide-and-seek

Race me around the raspberries,
until we twirl like the Damned,

like hurricane nostalgia,
and herds of pockets, slammed,

’til we buckle under senses,
and we overthrow the Fates,

like antiquated liquor,
or plush, sword-enflamed gates.

Let us run to sanguine grottos,
where they worshipped on all fours,

I will enshrine you in gold;
idolize me on doors.

Forget your vague, lacy lovers,
forget your cavernous halls,

come meet with me in sultry
caves; in violent withdrawals,

I am verse and agitation,
you are shepherd most profound;

We could be the ones to stop
the world from turning ’round.

late

My hips sway themselves mental
to hysteric light show alcoholism,
neon flashing, fenced-in abominations,
ID card question mark curiosities,
treble clef screaming punctualities,
I don’t care what I’m wearing,
or if mascara drips down my face
with sweat and whiskey,
I don’t care who’s dancing with me,
photographer flashbulb crushes,
and dyslexic t-shirt corrupters,
and perfectly trimmed beards,
dark as the middle east,
framing ancient-youth smiles,
I don’t care if I’m dancing alone,
I don’t care about anything but the beat
snaking its way through my body,
my hair flying frantic,
my hands on my own body,
you can’t touch me,
but I’ll touch myself,
the querulous whine of the track,
stinging my booze-soaked veins
which fight to free themselves from my skin,
a perilous, demanding waltz,
my god trips his way through ashes;
to mourn is to
to dance until
collapse.

occasion

If I went to your funeral,
I would sweep my hair up Grecian,
and slink into a dress draped charcoal,
with gold bangles on my arms,
and jewels cascading down my throat,
and stars in my eyes.
I would not greet any strangers,
all the people who know you, but
I would kiss your empty casket;
empty, for you could not have left
without your body,
so I would dream all the visions
you sent for me and reel ecstatic
in front of crying grandmothers,
and sweat profusely with pleasures
under the stares of former in-laws,
and fornicate with your ghost
in frolicsome agonies,
and you’d see me for the first time
from the rafters.

decree

All the peoples of the land shall
worship graven images of Most
High, without a solitary boast,
forsaking not god and his hall,

though he abandon us; cobalt
sky furies and stifling, freelance tombs,
screaming in the stillness of locked rooms,
and the searing whisper of salt,

to the dry mouth desert gunfire,
the clanging weaponry of his war,
to the artifice of bedroom floors,
the steepness of lonely desire.

Fill his ears with drug-fertile hymns
blossoming from your virginal tongues,
and branching up from your holy lungs,
fill goblets with song to the brims!

Dance naked, orgy in the streets,
show him all your salacious vigor,
shower alcoholics with liquor;
god is delighted by such feats!

Until you die, or he returns,
these will be your entreaties and acts:
gifting the rich with grisly abstracts,
and the homeless with diamond urns.

“Come quickly, regal King of Kings!”
You’ll violate your cities until
he comes back for you and to his hill.
Await what ancient glory brings!

psalm of pythia

Let the timeless ochre of your
voice send me to sleep every night,
in whispered pants,
in vicious passions,
under boomerang moons,
even just the vaguest memory of it
will conjure up victorious lusts,
and salacious, hypnotic pleadings
between my spread cashmere legs,
and the illustrious echo of your swaying voice,
will bring me to tears,
and to my knees,
and to enlightenment,
for ten eternities.
Make your lists of demons,
I am all of them,
send burning chariots for me,
I will ride them,
greet me with body parts,
I own them,
assail me with chemicals,
I worship them,
give me all your voices,
I will eat them
in
silver
spoonfuls.