crossfire of these days

I carry this body in pieces,
the creak of my joints
as rhythm,
the collapse of my lungs
as weight,
the snap of my neck
as finality,
my heart black ashes
in the crossfire
of these long days just waiting
to be over.

Sinner

I am used to your sins,
the curdle in the air, the scream
that poisons the frothy
white of the milk.
There is no doubt it was you,
yet the evidence is foggy,
smoke upon the glass, ashes
upon the sidewalk
and mud within your hair,
a sweet, sticky solution
to these ravages
while you kiss me open,
hold me back,
and lie directly in my ears.
I fold myself to sleep within
your voice, my arms
wrapped 'round the hollow
of your ribs,
blessed in the ruddy wounds
that weight me down within fatigue.
Still,
I know the breath of a liar,
the stench of the mad
and the ever molting sensation
of a killer's hands wrapped
'round my neck...

and there is no discomfort.

Conflagration

You ask me for a lover,

burned, charred and ransacked

upon my grave,

leaning back against 

the tombstone,

cigarette crushed between your lips

as I watch you smile

in the grimace of a flame

and I know
how badly I need to feel
your burning mouth against mine.
Because with every slight stretch

and unadorned movement of your body

I can feel the ashes piling higher

around me

in the clichéd form of desire

until I’m surrounded

by the fires of my own making,

heart slicing through the embers

as they claw and softly singe

my skin rubbed raw

from the blazing pressure

of loving

you.