pruningWe were thirty-eight at seventeenHere,We live from cigarette to cigarette.Elsewhere,Some of us are fighting wars.Some of us are jarring bells.Some of us are collecting shells.The rest of us are sleeping,dreaming about everything.We would get up,We would cry helpBut our pillows are scentedWith bedspreads of one-million-thread-count Egyptian cotton.My GodWe are almost rotten.It's so hard to see the top from the bottom.We could cry help.We would get up.But we are already forty-something.and I think we've forgotten.
cocktails and hand railsI didnt wear this dress for you.I wore this dress for all of you.I swore I never would and now I see I always will not wont. As long as they are looking.I smoke my smokes from behind this glass 'cause my glass slippers dont.
hisstoryI dreamt of a man who was greeted by equals with careful nods, who was treated in esteem, not legal tender.I dreamt of a man whos body was an athlete, as a resort of his cohort sport, not a feigned strength for reasons aesthete.I dreamt of a man who was a chief piece of an elite fleet of a phalanx of sorts.I dreamt of a man short of pride, lacquered of swart, with cleat-like feet, from earning his feat in the sun-ravenous heat.I dream of a man who is never seated. I dreamt that we were long married andin
i want insideIn the depth of night,When all of our bodies lie dormant,Our active minds erupt.My lucid dreams are slip-streams.And I'm curious:Can you feel my lava warmingthe exterior walls ofyourextinct-molten-rock of a head?Or do you sleep too deep?
Old hauntsSomber rays of sun drift oer the cornice,Melting in its exit, dreamless and breathless.Flora, but not fauna, stretch arms along the floor,Barricading gates and blockading fallow doors.Its cold, laying hands on these stone castle walls.Footsteps resonate, caught in these yawning halls.But, at night,Voices not my own echo down through the rooms.Whispers round the bell do battle with the moon,Asking it to wait.Please wait.Wraithlike breezes from the North rattle papers, feathers shake.Theres scratching, clawing on the headboards. None sleeping, none awake.Whittled wands cast little spells, spawning lazy earthquakesAnd grapes on the vine listen to three witches wait for long lost mates.Somber rays of sun plunge into windows, retreating to the precipice for fear of wakingan anxious, thrashing,nauseous, calling,jestless, threesomeof restless widows.They beg the sun, Asking it to wait. Plea
"move or be moved"The swarm of livid wasps forge light akin to lightning.It is a respiring apparatusThis mob.Respiring apparatus.This is the mob:Horde of horned horny hornets,Buzzing biased,Banking bread baked in blood-streaked mud.This is the mob.Plight: operative, but each time noxious.Match the march or make a break for a gap in our gall.There are no breaches in the reaches of the lion's share.No.No gaps in our gall.These lions:Jointless; kneeless, elbowless.Bendless:Unyielding and unapologetic.Man-shingled android.This swarm of livid wasps,Respiring apparatus:This is the mob.Move or be removed to join the bloody muddy belly of this horrible machine.
primitivescent consumed in sipssmoudering, teflon pink lips in heatmonkeys want to playwith the gaps between their hips,not buy them flowers.silly rabbit, chicks are for dicks.
Baby saliva is cleanThe music was soft and sweet,decelerating the company.Some were writhing sluggishly, like crippled worms, on that filthy carpet,lathering their skin's surplus around them: Cocoons of leftovers, so publicly private: Them, squared, in self-orbit.The eyelashes on the couch were batting reasonably furiously for attentionBut fuck,we can't pay attention. We can barely see each other through the smoke. Outlines and silhouettes, Only big hats are noticed: so somebody King them already.Not to mention,there are too many walls in this labyrinth of a single-story house. [It's a bitch to delouse – after every slimy party] There are not nearly enough windowsThe slow dancing mummies became drowsy.The sound went away and I watched lips perform these ugly acrobatics.Silent misunderstandings,because all the mouths were foxtrotting at once, and sometimes, not even because of that.Eye contact is brief and some ha
back home againIt's early morning; night falls drowsy and defeating light glows through the blinds,blinding nothing.Window ledges hurt like birth, wrapped tight around squirming. I stand with a victory torch and no fire to ignite it asraccoons annex my backyard …There is no way back.There is no way forward.No taxi cab.No chariot.No pumpkins blooming into whitehorse-drawn, icicle carriages.But there is a ballAnd there is a princeAnd he is lieing loudly on the entertainment-side of a calloused highway.