shakespeare

Where is the satisfaction?
the exporer becoming the explored.
what would it mean to have you touch me there?
to have you touch me like that?
smudging my womanhood
crucifying and digging
“don’t you ever forget this moment”
i hate to call it a haunting
but
“a rose by any other….”


that’s exactly what it is.

myths and aqua jets

fill it.
glass box with the smoke of a thousand goodbyes
the water is settling, erotic, on the tip of your inflected and forked tongue
i guzzle it down my throat
swollen
and itching with the unsettlement of having been pushed too far
wandered off the path
to find
on the other side of aqua jets
the cold cement of blackened morose promises
you didn't keep.
Your mind
too rational
flows through mine with the liquid ease of forgotten time
mine, too wide
searches for it's perimeter
hoping to find the completion of it's angle
obtuse and lonely
acute and all alone
where do the diagonals of my thoughts die?
and dive?
when will the intersection be the cure?
the outer limits of the myth i have made,
allowed myself to take part in
allowed you to take part
have become nothing more than lullabies i sing myself to make the intersection near
tangible
sweating and warm
to wrap my twisted body between your meshes and holds might make me split
if i could tell how far the warmth reaches
deep below skin, blood, and bone

it finds itself singular
bathing and steeped in the myth of a longer day.

today

sex is only ever an expression of need
in this modern age, we cannot find eachother
we cannot find our way back



Surrealist Game #347

1. recall everyone you have ever spoken to
2. subtract all but their voices
3. create an orchestra out of these voices
4. remember how bossy everyone is

.

please please take me home
where i sit now i dissect oranges and kill sugar trees

i smoke too much and sleep too little
i learn too little and think too much

take me home beauty
take me & hold me
just take me home

where's the exit Barcelona?

if i were to trip right now...this is what i would say

“you think this moment is the only thing that binds us”

You think you can unwind, rewind the making of your intelligence, of your crowning.
What comes first? words or ideas? images or auras? Who will you see when you wake up grotesque. again.
Pigs munch on apples, and vegetal debris.
Who will be your pig?

I could draw meaning out of everything I write, but merely shade myself from disappointment.
Rework my tongue in and around the locus.
Where? Oh where does it hide?
I halt/start my beginning. over&over.
You tell me the moment has come. to write. to write and not to fight.
To kill the meaning, to crunch it, crushing the crucible with crying hands and tinny mouths and tongues which reek of aluminum and sweat.

Have I told you how much I love confused pears? or the meaning of a broken palm? Have I told you about your smell? or how much you really mean?

You. Hypocrite.

Acting like you don’t like cherry stained fingers or narrative stained palms.
Nails collecting the debris of your sexual experience.


Have I told you how much I love you recently? In fewer words than this?