-
I’m Waiting for You to Listen, Shut Up, I’m Getting to the Good Part
I laid the girl under the desk and wrapped her thighs around the legs.
I am not infatuated with the idea of a woman
standing above
waiting for arsenic to pull her cheeks up over her eyes.
Honestly, I catch
between my lips and
the price drops.
Smiling at the pictures in the hallway? The south wall. She could
have been
something if I hadn’t come along.
In the early evening she washed her arms with lavender soap, the clocks backward the hands it goes, what are you doing standing the rain with your legs spread, come inside, you’ll catch your death.
-
I HOPE I’M NOT DRIVING YOU AWAY WAIT A LITTLE LONGER YOU WON’T REGRET IT
Your pants are off. Your pants are
always
off,
wrapped around the
clouds,
gripping your feet together like polka-dotted hands,
his hands,
uninitiated bones peeling the scars away from your ankle. You are staring at the ceiling, you’ve counted the stains, the mold,
the semen,
the way they form his face on the deadened yellow plaster that wants to spear the back of your throat with his cross until your top comes off.
This is you and you
wanted it to
be you.
-
ATLAS WAS PERMITTED THE OPINION THAT HE WAS AT LIBERTY
Atlas was permitted the opinion that he was at liberty, if he wished, to drop the Earth and creep away; but this opinion was all that was permitted. - Franz Kafka
Stop spitting in my coffee and stirring the foam with your finger. The truth is,
women find
boring what I
If we let the girl
get herself wet up to her
can she be
fed your larynx? Is doing what
you want turning my stomach hairs to black widows?
And
she said to me (because she never shuts up never takes her legs off and lets me slide my tongue through her)
one day, I will wake up one day
and you’ll drop me. I’ll shatter like a wine glass.
-
A Night in Your Apartment: Best Scenes Compilation
A Night in Your Apartment: Best Scenes Compilation
:56 – a new species of broccoli I find under your tongue. You tell me stop trying to stamp out the fire you tell me you’re only making it worse (back arched, orifices open).
2:39 – the castle seized, flags lowered, whiskeys all around. Good job, boys, you earned it. Smoke speaks to the nipples but cries in an archaic dialect.
6:02 – I couldn’t stand to have you read my thesis, I wrote it in five minutes, I stopped remembering how to bleed. A car stopped inside of me and I lost the keys I can’t move it. Anyway, take it.
14:36 – we stop pinching your arms into segments and lost we become in a desert of saliva. When the sun where does it hide its hands? Behind its eyes?
27:14 – the stars are sleeping in our mouths, they’re cutting away at our tongues with their sawblades, I taste you, it’s cold, there’s ice hanging from my neck like my
59:51 – you I am feeding snow. It melts in your lap, we suck the wetness out of your jeans, mouth like a vacuum it’s only
1:30:42 – if you don’t know how to clean bones from the gutters with your tongue, we’re starring in the wrong movie.
-
I Looked in the Cupboard; Camus was Gone
I.
You might think it went like this: first,
I’d pull the charred sticks across your
stomach and paint charcoal angels on your decayed nipples, and
you’ll remember why we were mouth-deep
in an exploded
garbage
truck, and why our eyes were coated in
stale gasoline and fireflies. Then the stains
of
coffee and absinthe will erode
at the notches
between the windows of your throat,
they’ll knock very softly before tearing your teeth from your palms and leaving them on your mother’s porch,
and when the clocks nailed to our lungs stop remembering our names, I’ll
take you to the infirmary and
we’ll ask the surgeons to stop dancing on your fetal
deathtrap.
II.
Let’s
pretend it didn’t go like this:
you told me “I love you” and I remembered what it felt like to become ambient sound,
and I said “this is too soon” and you stabbed the back of my
throat with
the ruby fork in yours,
and I ripped out your eyes,
I rubbed them against my heels until they smoked and caught your house on fire,
they
chased me around the room,
around the couch you hid his bones in,
“he” being whoever you want,
it doesn’t matter, not
really.
Your eyes and I wrestled until you joined in,
your hands
ripped my lips to pieces,
we fed them to the eyes,
they impaled themselves on me,
“them” meaning you,
you moved my dreams for me and in the morning we found them, we remembered that we hid them behind your snake print heels.
When you picked me back up and wiped the pus from
my eyebrows, and made me promise to never be creative again, I think I saw the couch grin smugly
and swallow him whole.
-
Poem (If You Ask Me…)
I am currently working on a collection of poems based around the idea of sex as a destructive force, and its effect on people involved. Over the next few days, I plan to post a few of them, starting with what I intend to use as the introductory piece.
PoemIf you ask me
to project the idea
of love into my
mind, will I
always think of
entering a woman
dominating, listless over
my lips like a
decrepit hawk?
Perhaps and perhaps
not, this is just a
reflection of where
on the road we’ve
decided to turn our
bodies into a home.
If I had to show
love to you,
I would cave
in your stomach
with a wedge and
use the sinews
to string a cello.
Love is lost on
you if you don’t
understand
that a
penis is a
weapon.
