Kidding.

Beautiful, gorgeous, happy glow…
Your Sweetest Nothing’s
put into syllables, for show.
Fiery, wanting…
glued to your face
your mouth’s curves
a daunting place…
I’ve been before
But tell me how – I bow down
into the splinters and cinders
that litter the floors
like your long line of whores
I see them all,
I choose to ignore…
You never answer questions
your many Life Lessons
have taught you little of
the snap inside my rubber glove
We are meant to Own our possessions.
Are we not?
You have seen quite a lot
Of my flesh,
Camera flash;
digitalized dash
in red LED text;
what now?
Onto the next…
Right?
Or am I wrong?
Am I dumb
To play along?
See here’s the thing:
I see the strings
Attached to each one
Of your crispy clean
cummerbunds…
I see the line of
Space and time,
wrapped inside
Of that tattoo –
You were too pure
to follow through…
Ouch!
this hurts miserably;
Yes you , yes me.
Look away if you must
Please?
Your face is too much
to see, anyway.
Ouch!
Just go on about your
fashionable way.
You were fine before
I came along
In my string bikini thong
to knock upon your door;
You’ll be fine now,
and I guess…
so will I, somehow –
Just forget it all,
my cries and calls,
forget me
don’t see me…
don’t see me fall.
You won’t believe me,
Anyway…
Your ears don’t hear
a word I say.
Go fucking play
As you have,
each and every day
as it’s passed.
What was that?
What did you say?
“Score?…Because of…?”
And you’re talking about
How I showed
my bare ass to you –
FUCK YOU.
For that,
I counter you:
Mr. Fashionably True,
I hope this finds you well;
I hope it reaches you;
And hits you
makes you hurt
as you’re looking up my skirt…
What’s the score again?
Mr. Hockey Man –
dead red battery
flashing in your corner screen,
you don’t know the bones
that construct Lil’ Ol’ Me,
nothing taken seriously…
so fuck yourself,
good and hard –
multiplied by twelve.
I am a star,
And I will shine in Hell –
Quit kidding yourself.

Padlocked.

You thought I wasn’t listening,

that your sentiment was lost on me,

you convinced yourself eventually,

that an evil lingered, baring teeth…

Didn’t you write mind blowing poetry?

And used for your muse, a snapshot of me?

Then my mind was confused immediately,

the flip to the switch that turns you on to me…

In no way did I anticipate,

To be smitten by you, for Chrissake,

to be bitten into, til my body shakes,

and left alone in an expanding space…

It’s a cosmically powered vacuum,

sucking the poetry away from we, two,

stealing the essence left that I cling to,

revealing rebellious dissent in high volume…

until the shine of the sun again forces ahead,

the steps of my feet through your head,

the lines in my cheeks as you blush me dark red,

your dreams are ever padlocked in a box under my bed.

Blow.

I know which way,

wind tends to blow…

From day to day,

It changes, I know…

clever word play,

I’m taking notes…

I’m on the belay,

but missing the rope…

I see the mask,

beneath the mists…

A deep overcast,

A darkened glimpse…

of shadows amassed,

between our kiss…

questions unasked,

blissful in my ignorance…

my faith has already burned,

I don’t say any desperate prayers…

Certain things can’t be unlearned,

certain feelings can’t be spared…

have the tides already turned?

and you’ve left me sitting here?

I know, typically,

how the story goes…

it ends quite abruptly,

a chop to the throat…

heartrendingly,

and POOF! I’m a ghost…

just a shiny memory,

missing most of my nose.

 

 

 

 

 

Long Night.

Early on,

the night is long,

you trail me,

by a sturdy lead,

unsurprised,

are your eyes,

to perceive,

how readily,

I follow along,

mesmerized,

paralyzed

by your song,

vocalized,

localized,

loud and long,

played steadily,

laid heavily,

heaves and sighs,

the fall and rise,

in ecstasy,

in submission,

across a knee,

white flag waving,

daylight fading,

into the pull,

magnetically,

shamelessly,

make-up smearing,

clothes disappearing,

instantly,

full nudity,

immortalized,

by your tender mind,

and your touch,

leaves me,

crossing my eyes,

seeing flashes of light,

burning,

yearning,

rivers rush deep,

the mouth to the sea,

internalized,

naturally.

 

 

 

A Story in My Pocket.

The prize strung ahead of the nose,

when you catch the undertow,

and then quite suddenly,

wood is whittling,

reality is spinning,

the line between is thinning,

and all you can really perceive,

through your constant scrutiny,

is the cause of this heavy feeling ;

through the flaws of space and time,

you vaguely make out this form of mine,

balanced on scales made of porcelain,

ankles broken,

eyes wide open,

you shouldered my weight a while,

you ordered the return of my smile,

splinted my legs and marched me away,

you slipped a story into my pocket,

and it started and ended with truth.

 

 

Scribe.

The branded letters of your name in dark calligraphy,

carved out by Forever’s river subcutaneously,

to the bone, through the veins, tattooed in crimson ink,

the treasure that I favor ascribed in arcane lettering;

 

In the distant future dissolve the sutures sewn by time,

I suck the poison from your wound and put a twinkle in your eye,

you suck the fear from this defeated spirit of mine,

you will bask in my trust and I will harbor your pride;

 

the hand-written book bound together with twine,

unspeakably strong, fit to tow on the line,

a secret alphabet soup eaten by passing time,

words rung through to soothe my aching mind.

 

 

 

 

 

Sing-Song.

Confined by a desirous thing,

the inside of a tiny boxing ring,

minus the hollering referee,

in my corner to guide me to victory;

your voice leaves me wanting to sing,

your face just leaves me wanting,

to taste your kisses subserviently,

to undress you each night of week,

to take all of you into me,

and keep the secret of your poetry,

forever pulsing in my veins,

like a tissue to dab my tears away,

please just continue to read to me,

forever and without ever leaving.

The Plank.

You, so manly
present to me
a charming mystery,
cyber-spatially,
but maybe,
tell me…
your well-versed hands,
can they find me,
and touch me?
Can that buccaneer,
pirate this booty?
Can your glasses shade,
this blazing heat?
Can your man stand up,
to your poetry?
our secret affair
of which you’re not aware,
surprise!
do you follow me?

Big Things.

We got big dreams,

me and him

Someday big things

are bound to happen

We’ll grow big trees

As legal aliens

On some big beach

With the Mexicans

We’ll raise puppies

instead of children

Rotts and Boxers

by the millions

I’ll finish each day

still right next to him

he’ll happily inspect

the tan-lines on my skin

He drives a Tonka Truck

I teach words to the orphans

we got big plans on the brink

me and the big boss man

Trumped.

 

A play on the many words,
that we’ve each said and heard,
many belly laughs,
and silly photographs,
over distance that’s absurd,
We’ve been down Sesame Street,
with a lazy dog in the front seat,
international,
hardly rational,
Skynyrd and b-track AC/DC,
you know how you kill me slowly,
and I kill you the same, reciprocally,
spent up calling cards,
beachfront train yards,
and trucks with tires as tall as me,
kisses throughout every darkened dream,
boats without oars and old fishing stories,
pasty and born-again,
sun-burned Mexicans,
full of all things solid, to remain just as solidly.

The Bartender.

I know he digs the way I think;
the shoes I wear; the foods I eat;
so much in fact is his smitten instinct;
he will default back to getting down on a knee…

He knows all the words to my favorite tales;
he rides into a room on no one’s coat-tails;
he’s immature – but he cleans up so well;
we are both too crazy for each other to tell…

I let him get away with almost anything;
all he has to do is bat those sweet hazel eyes at me;
flash me back to the bar he tends at night in Queens;
the mouth and mind of Walken with a heart like Huckleberry.

Stavlos.

The gates,
built in his absence,
to keep this place secure…
they shake,
they rattle,
woe they say,
the gatekeepers,
never forewarned,
of the bridges burned;
and here rides He,
my Champion,
fast-approaching,
all-encompassing,
horses galloping,
a God of the Sun,
the skin of bronze,
the heart of strong,
the lifetimes,
and lifetimes,
I’ve listened,
so many times,
naked and sprawled,
entranced and enthralled…
by my returning,
Champion’s victory song,
destiny, it’s called,
this string tied,
from his heartbeats,
to mine.

Try Little.

fight-club-copy

Herfra til her, beskidte dearhas
endnu ikke modtaget en værdig ord
se den måde at Ican
producere vinger og flylike
det allermindste, poetisk fugl.
Once in a while, you flash me a smile
and I’m smitten all over again
but most of the time
your impatient, closed-mind
tries little to rein that ego of yours in.
You seem to forget, that I’m no Juliet
never claimed to be a butterfly
your face is so fine
with a heart, so unkind
tries little to learn the reasons why.
You aren’t alone, many have come and gone
with languages that I can’t understand
you’ve chalked yourself up
to that shiny, trophy cup
tried little, to know who I actually am.
Once in lifetime, comes a heart like mine
the likes of you struggles to recognize
so like a camera flash
just a ghost in your past
here and gone before you opened your eyes.

Try Me.

Try me, spicy,
cursive Roman lettering…
A secret alphabet,
Dicey;
enticing the skin
of my fingertips;
dividing the places
between my hips;
underneath, and
in between,
how did you know?
How can you be?
The Keeper of
the lock and key…
when I
can’t even find the thing?
Try me, scarface,
nemojte me obožavaju?…
Made of bones –
Which dialect
Do you know?
si me obožavaju?
can’t you understand?
Made of flesh –
And strung
around your neck,
you want it wet…
I’m in your net.
Please?
Release…
Try me, Handsome,
I’m yours for sure
Your unsecret whore,
Of the North Shore.
Made of stones,
tell me…
who is right and wrong?
It does not matter,
It never will,
Let me in –
Let me kill;
Your darkest chatter,
Be it gone,
so that my ears
will hear…
your every love song.
Push me and pull me
Carry on…
I hear you
I see you
I know your soul,
you know that I do…
it can’t be controlled;
it won’t be withheld,
that wouldn’t be fair…
tongues and tresses,
swallowed air…
necklaces of skulls and things,
bite marks and ink stains;
I love your pleasures,
you love my pains.
What the fuck
was my point again?

Dashlights.

Its dark…
The night is cold,
The fear is old;
I grow tired…
Of waiting,
and reading through
All these notes left scattered
Everywhere
Written by you.

Where do you go?
What do you do?
When the real-time footage
Plays the loop through…
“Dinner is served”…
The bloodthirsty nerve!

It’s late…
The night is silent,
A painful quiet;
I grow sleepy…
And hungry,
I want to bite into
Every inch of the vinyl
Spinning
Played on your queue.

What do you know?
What can you prove?
When the real-time footage
Of your dashboard plays through…
Red-lettered digital words…
Describe the song being heard.

Its puzzling…
The night is long,
Without your songs;
I grow weary…
Of listening,
For the sound of your steps
Anywhere
Coming to me.

What do you want?
Why can’t I move?
When the real-time footage
Of the road ahead of you…
Cuts abruptly off before…
The camera falls on you.