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this is a poem.
.
Showing posts with label lust. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lust. Show all posts
Sep 19, 2014
Dec 2, 2013
just do that thing that you do, in a perverse hue
.
when she sings a hybrid can withstand these things, my heart can beat with bricks and strings i swear to whatever absent or present Christ that might hover above me, wishing me well or feeding the dark cloud that follows my bloodline, that my tears well up something awful and beautiful in my eyes and, in this moment i want to lay your body down and crawl above you like a demon, with enough space between us so that my awful beautiful tears fall and find their way in to the crevice where your arm lays against your side, in to the well of your collar bone, and leak down to fill the millimeter of flesh between your toes. let me cloak you, bathe you with my tears. i promise, i won't make an ugly face when i cry. i cry with a straight face. every now and then, a trembling chin. and that's if you're lucky. like Caesar, no one gets to watch me die. my betrayers will remain unsatisfied.
she sings brushes with darkness will not help you create your destiny of self but i think i disagree. i disagree because my whole life has been one brush with darkness after the next and it has been absolutely not of my choosing. and in the midst of such ugliness i tended to my own face and my own soul: i scraped together whatever breakfast i could managed and i choked down whatever hope i could find. in these moments, when the world turned away from the squalor of my birth, i loved the world anyway. in these moments, i dreampt of your corners and promised myself that, one day, i would find a way to reach out and explore the shadow that marries your thigh to your hip. no matter how many plane tickets or tears it may take to find it.
my imperfections are glaring but i don't give a fuck. my love is perfect and complete and so is my lust. i paint my eyes and my lips and crash into myself with the total fervor of your aching, confused heart. lift up my skirts, lift up my sheets, bury your face in, bury your face in, bury your face in, bury your cock in, shove your faith and pain into whatever opening you find first.
put your headphones on and ignore the phone calls.
walking through crowds, all i see is myself- my own hands swaying next to my hips, my feet pounding the concrete, and all the plane tickets i've bought myself. i look to no one for the realization of my dreams. just myself. i look to no one. no one. just the darkness that brushes up against my cheek, parts my hair, paints my lips, my eyes, and puts a strong stride in my step.
keep it tight. sometimes the simplest move is right.
the melody that you choose can rescue you.
.
when she sings a hybrid can withstand these things, my heart can beat with bricks and strings i swear to whatever absent or present Christ that might hover above me, wishing me well or feeding the dark cloud that follows my bloodline, that my tears well up something awful and beautiful in my eyes and, in this moment i want to lay your body down and crawl above you like a demon, with enough space between us so that my awful beautiful tears fall and find their way in to the crevice where your arm lays against your side, in to the well of your collar bone, and leak down to fill the millimeter of flesh between your toes. let me cloak you, bathe you with my tears. i promise, i won't make an ugly face when i cry. i cry with a straight face. every now and then, a trembling chin. and that's if you're lucky. like Caesar, no one gets to watch me die. my betrayers will remain unsatisfied.
she sings brushes with darkness will not help you create your destiny of self but i think i disagree. i disagree because my whole life has been one brush with darkness after the next and it has been absolutely not of my choosing. and in the midst of such ugliness i tended to my own face and my own soul: i scraped together whatever breakfast i could managed and i choked down whatever hope i could find. in these moments, when the world turned away from the squalor of my birth, i loved the world anyway. in these moments, i dreampt of your corners and promised myself that, one day, i would find a way to reach out and explore the shadow that marries your thigh to your hip. no matter how many plane tickets or tears it may take to find it.
my imperfections are glaring but i don't give a fuck. my love is perfect and complete and so is my lust. i paint my eyes and my lips and crash into myself with the total fervor of your aching, confused heart. lift up my skirts, lift up my sheets, bury your face in, bury your face in, bury your face in, bury your cock in, shove your faith and pain into whatever opening you find first.
put your headphones on and ignore the phone calls.
walking through crowds, all i see is myself- my own hands swaying next to my hips, my feet pounding the concrete, and all the plane tickets i've bought myself. i look to no one for the realization of my dreams. just myself. i look to no one. no one. just the darkness that brushes up against my cheek, parts my hair, paints my lips, my eyes, and puts a strong stride in my step.
keep it tight. sometimes the simplest move is right.
the melody that you choose can rescue you.
.
Jun 6, 2013
May 6, 2013
Feb 5, 2013
Mein Gesicht an dem Kissen
.
some sort of unknowable pull.
some sort of intoxicated desire.
some sort of gross need.
some sort of unnameable itch.
some sort of gasping breath.
some sort of gaping mouth.
some sort of begging bitch.
what fire?
what spit?
what fuel
burning across this livid skin, this apologetic pink?
what name?
what prayer?
what immoral ache?
see me
as if eyes had never found my face.
see me as if i were new.
what of all this anxiety and demand?
shut your mouth until it's time to kiss.
your face in my telephone.
your torso rising in my bereft and lonely dreams.
some sort of answer.
some sort of opiate.
some sort of comfort.
some sort of eager whisper across the knees.
some sort of fever.
some sort of austere hope.
some sort of home.
what fire. what spit. what fuel.
your accent tonguing the tips of my syllables,
polishing my silent cowboy edges.
in your mouth,
my name
my history
my fearful disbelief
never had it so good.
some sort of mirror.
some sort of reckoning.
.
some sort of unknowable pull.
some sort of intoxicated desire.
some sort of gross need.
some sort of unnameable itch.
some sort of gasping breath.
some sort of gaping mouth.
some sort of begging bitch.
what fire?
what spit?
what fuel
burning across this livid skin, this apologetic pink?
what name?
what prayer?
what immoral ache?
see me
as if eyes had never found my face.
see me as if i were new.
what of all this anxiety and demand?
shut your mouth until it's time to kiss.
your face in my telephone.
your torso rising in my bereft and lonely dreams.
some sort of answer.
some sort of opiate.
some sort of comfort.
some sort of eager whisper across the knees.
some sort of fever.
some sort of austere hope.
some sort of home.
what fire. what spit. what fuel.
your accent tonguing the tips of my syllables,
polishing my silent cowboy edges.
in your mouth,
my name
my history
my fearful disbelief
never had it so good.
some sort of mirror.
some sort of reckoning.
.
Oct 26, 2012
eager and warm
tonight, on an empty dance floor, i moved my hips and danced with my beautiful friend dressed in royal blue. our friends were there to watch and i never once felt embarrassed. life is too damn short. years ago a woman said to me "dance while you can because before you know it the fat lady's gonna sing". i heed the warning and take the opportunity to lose myself in the thundering bass. what else is there? and in 17 days i'll be back in new york. i will walk, dressed in my black sweaters and sentiments through the lower east side, looking for a different dance floor where i can drop my sweat and hope. freya was just there. she sent me texts and pictures. she had drinks at my favorite bar. i can't wait to be back in that fair city, in the cold and quick pace of breath and footsteps. 17 days. i will stack as much paper as i can between now and then just to burn on drinks and bagels and hotdogs and coffee and entrance into every museum i can make time for. my red-eyed chariot awaits and i cannot wait to see that blazing city come back into view from an airplane window. my love. my only. my face pressed against the glass, hungry for all you offer. my pen is eager to spill poems for the scents and shapes you describe.
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