Role-play

I wonder how she tastes
past her waist,
how her red hair is
much more red due to
the desire to commit
adultery (if I was married).

I wonder how her lips
suck onto the tip of
my tongue: she corrects my English,
and how she moans when she forgets
the possessive pronouns.

Do her marks and bites
bleed differently for those
she doesn't kiss?

"And when you kiss me,
I wonder you're just
not fucking me."

"And when you kiss me,
I know you're just
not fucking me."

I blink the circumstances away,
it must be temporary,
and we breathe it all
in and heavy and
out and light because
otherwise we'd be dead.

Literary Asthma

.

.

.

.

[original pic here http://browse.deviantart.com/?q=choke&order=9&offset=168#/d2d462v - a little manipulated by me].

Death to the poet.

Half words in between

ashes of strangers'

sweat,

there,

lies her tomb.

The crumbling

cultured posed

falling off

a white horse,

its hair fluttering

with the breeze.

The poet has no air,

cum

Pale & in Absolute

porcelain.

The poet is dead.

Blood

until the color red

read finally dead.

One less poetential.

What's the use of sun

when it's always covered

on clouds?

second chance

[ pic by http://browse.deviantart.com/?qh=&section=&global=1&q=mud#/djggfo ]

On muddy
bed I think
how to change myself
with hands of charcoal,
your face on my walls
with lungs of smoke
puffing the call.

Shadows creep up the roof
into pulsing veins,
the streams with moss
across my arms
follow spiderweb tongue
hanging from your branches,
and I watch,
I watch close
the fangs upon my skin
breaking rib cage free
to dust only
and soft
and nails
piercing
perfection across my eyes,
eyes drowned in powder
and suffocated by tears
of constant lingering
in the house of absurdity
where I was beheaded,
where I rescued my own.
I, and no one else.

Orgasm

I was enjoying my tea.
Then you rasped my throat,
razor-blade-mint-leaves tongue.

My breath is fresh
like mold.

My bile, I'll be here for a while
growing hair under my nails.

Fermented emotions
pouring on my glass,
you're nauseously drunk,
there is no turning back.
Inebriation with my fingers
inside of your flesh,
anesthesia of sensations,
sweat perforates your chest.

You tear my humanity,
I tear your skin.

We grow ants infestations
as our home atop.
The circle must
never stop.

The Gold Miner

Heavy around my neck.
The gem turned into stone.

Coffin Memories

Now I often think about it.
When the taste of coffee
splashes bitter sharp grains
in my mouth
(how words amputate
my desires once seen
in a glimpse of innocence).

There is no room for innocence
underneath the armor.
There is no room for belief
on a 8X10 mindset.

It starts to make sense why
I am drinking rusty water,
and how I write "poetry"
on toilet paper, and when
my skills became paralytic.

Now that I often think about it
I revolutionized my own vocabulary:
my favorite prefixes are -a and -an:
amoral, anesthetic, apolitical, asocial.

Now that the feeling is so knotty
I wish choking became hanging.
Now that God stole my tears
there is only penitence past the doors.

Science Class: Winter, 2010

I pick you up
with no warning.
Wonder if you pick
my in between the lines up.
You pick up honey crisp apples
from the arteries
of our green love.
I pick up electric flying strings
from the top of our intellect.

Galactic crunchy & Tingling bonding