We lay as two spoons;
My back to you
It starts feathery, drawn
Rhythmic, predictable
Audible, but gentle
Until the twitch, twitch
A pause-
Before the whistling expulsion
After the long hold
I can hear it beginning
Fills up your cheeks
And, noisily, disruptively-
pops like a kiss
As it escapes.
Sometimes, quite times
The swinging pendulum
and rivers running
Blood rushing
Under the skin, growing hard
Rough. Marked. Tough scars.
These are the life lines
We write about, talk about
Show others, one another
The life lines
Of time, ticking time
Ticking by.
A story, known only
By the bearer, the wearer
The perfect thing,
Before the first years
Perfect skin
Soft, gentle
A trip, a stumble,
A cut, a burn
We accept, unchangeable
This harsh contrast
And there comes the pain
Onto oneself, or
A gift from another
Received
Always remembered
When it marks,
Perfect skin, now only
A perfect memory
We remember the way
It used to be, before
the line was made
The swinging pendulum
And the rushing river, crossed
Sometimes, quiet times
We think of all we’ve lost.
This love – hot and crazed
He says, “Don’t look at me that way.
I don’t care for that death stare.”
Endless
I could write all night
But to dance all night
Requires the keep
of endless sleep
After the play
After today
Before the occur.
She shouts
Far out!
My stockings
are cutting off
the circulation
To my pussy.
Sleepy Minx
likes to jinx her good fortune
with the obscurity of her
Possession
an Obsession unto itself
damaging all
Rumbling, tumbling
collecting all in its way
Leaving the hard
Hard to leave.