Tag: love

Poem

I bathe in the haze of smoke slipped between teeth and lips,
pushing out words delivered by a voice shaking with the bass
of bomb shells. Not saccharine but honeysuckle sweet. I press
my lips to the base of that flower and inhale every ache that floats
from his lips to mine. I evaporate in these crowded dim lit
bars—moss walls and tobacco tinged lamps—staring dumbly into
hazel eyes.

Sometimes they’re the same dark olive green
as his coat with flecks of red and brass like bars
and stripes. His stories pungent with the metallic
taste of blood, a mouth full of pennies with the crack
of fire right behind your ear. Bite hard to keep it
reeling behind eyelids, hard enough to leave a mark.

His eyes once verdant green
as verdigris, the copper washed
out by the sweat that dripped
off his brow. He grips me as if
I’m already leaving him, as if
he’s already leaving me—
pushes himself back into me.

&I’m afraid to stay.
&I’m afraid to let him go.

 

written 8 January 2013

poem

I bathe in the smoke of words, not saccharine but honeysuckle sweet. I press my lips to the base of that flower and inhale every emotion that floats off his lips. I could die in these crowded dim lit bars staring dumbly into hazel eyes.

Sometimes they’re the same dark dirty green as his coat with flecks of red and brass like his bars and stripes. His stories pungent with the metallic taste of blood, a mouth full of pennies with the crack of fire right behind your ear.

Crass words licked with trauma of loss. He grips my body as if I’m already leaving him, pushes himself back into me.

&I’m afraid to stay.

&I’m afraid to let him go.

 

27 December 2012

Poem.

I could see the wrinkles in his skin;
where it would dip in, cave in,
eventually sink. and I would fall
in love with leather.
but I don’t eat red meat.
Pulled tight as wax with rivers
of plum dehydrated blood, hands
and tree root knuckles; I
could see him rotting happily
away.
and I would fall complacently
into old age and atrophy.

17/Dec/2008 17:35

Wake

It would behoove me to remove these lips
to make me mute, to rip from my throat
the chords of my voice that form
the horrifying words that no one wants
to hear, that frame the macabre
visions haggard in my eyes. My craven
mouth will meekly consecrate
our decrepit love, make homage to the rot
we bred. and What of dying love?
The frayed muscles of our hearts–drowning
on the flood of blood in the throat–the choking
of slipped tongues. I said I meant every word
and I do. Something is dying in this room.
This is the smell of a ten year wake. A sermon
churning in my gut, finally purged through
every numb limb–every harbored hate
exposed. One should never
crave a funeral.

Swollen Skin–poem

My leg rots away with the words from my mouth—its
green apple spit dribbles down the blushed poinsettia leaf
of my skin. This bed is infested with the filth of afternoons
drenched in the silt of sleep. Exhaustion drips. Skin swells.
My fat ankle the fat lip of a marriage to love driven into
the ditch. I would eat these pages like cotton hung to my
gums, savor fleeting dreams with the flesh beneath my skin.
Gauze, wrapped tight between the sheets—fleas crawl on
skin; infected by the bite of failure on the lips. My dry
spell ends in an abscessed mind. Chew chalk pills with soggy
teeth and swallow hard the loss that rots with pages
empty in hand.

written 11 August 2011.