The Bloody Lover of Time

Tick Tock.
There's a deep beating of a
bloody clock
nailed to the wall.
You're a nest breaker
with the cracking of the eggs
underneath the thin layer of static
we're walking on.
There's a stretching sensation
of time spreading thin
as the cells snap, breaking
and drowning within the bruises.
I delight in the sadistic side of your love
as I watch it bouncing down
the steps and into the glass,
smashing and cracking
the delicate frame
you've placed yourself in.
Tick Tock.
Tick Tock.
It's not as if you can rip
the hands apart,
smashing the fingers as they stretch towards the hours.
We can break the eggs
and drink the yokes,
letting them run yellow down
the fronts of our clothes,
soaking and dying,
molting and shredding
the remains of this
broken relationship
while mixing a glass of
wine.

fly

fly
and rid ourselves of pain
grow soft
and feel the breaking of bones
tearing of flesh
relax
lean back and drink
the constant falling of rain
before we drown
so fly
high
until we are without direction
lost within this state of being
not fully whole
neither empty though
fly
as far as you can go
moving within circles
yet always leaving
fly away
from me
from here
from everything, until you can go no more

walk
for now your wings are shredded
broken
blistered
walk
for now you can fly no more

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.

Drinking the Storm

You know that I can taste the thunder, pull back my eyes, cross my lips and whimper beneath the slight chill that foams across the air. Because it's coming, the splatter against the pavement, the collapse against the windows and the thrilling hum of energy as I inhale.

          

But still, I don't think you really want to hear about that, my feelings about something other than yourself. I still wish for the cheap sensations of desire to kiss my lips and knock me backwards into the damp grass while gray clouds roll and boil above my heart.

            

I'm just waiting for it all to explode with thunder and let the lightning skim across my flesh, mar my surface and try to prove something. I don't know what though, I don't know what.

            

I need to taste thunder though, chew the lightning and drink the storm, knocking it all back with the third rate sensations of sensuality detained at the border, guarded and shot upon at sight. I need to let it go, fall forward, tumble down the hill, clutching the fragments of what little self-esteem you allowed me to keep.

            

I'll keep rolling until I hit the bottom and find the rain upon me.

Watching You

06/03/12

I can remember the way
I watch you,
eyes darting away to not get caught
as I check you out,
scrape the lines of your body clean
before rising up to meet your eyes
in a panic,
for I want to touch you,
kiss you clean,
straddle your lap, lace your fingers
through mine and allow myself
to fall forward into you.

More of a Poet

I think I’m more greedy

than you can imagine,

spread out and dyed,

smothered in the freshly baked pages

of imagery gone wild,

swinging out across the sand.

I want to swallow and taste

the bitter hue

of words gone sour

in the library of our thoughts composed,

boiled, shredded and baked

in the oven of our small apartment.

I’ve got the sensation

of all your angles and panes

stamped across my tongue

despite my actions of trying to

scrape myself clean of you

with a bloody knife.

I’ve got you printed deep within

the pages and painted

across my skin,

despite my horror.

I’ll never see your grimace,

your smile, your laugh

carved and curled around the words.

I’m expecting myself to write fantasy

in which you don’t exist,

the wall are white

and the sheets are clean.

You’re more of a poet than

I am though,

for I can still feel your presence

moving inside me.

Confession

06/17/12

There's the gap in my chest
as my ribs are slowly pried apart,
my lungs gasping for air,
my mouth dry as I try to swallow
my heart down deep into my chest
before it bursts.
I can't believe I said that
to you.