There are no lines in this balcony scene,
just the long drag of engines, like dirty glass
bottles in some alleyway. You've asked me
should I feel like a prostitute sometimes,
not owned by some man but those curtain veins
paid by the hour, torn and collapsed.
Your breathing is narrow,
and a wide bloom of empty space
is outside you, spinning and obscene
because life's not getting any better than that.
There are no lines in this balcony scene,
just the long drag of engines, like dirty glass
bottles in some alleyway. You've asked me
should I feel like a prostitute sometimes,
not owned by some man but those curtain veins
paid by the hour, torn and collapsed.
Your breathing is narrow,
and a wide bloom of empty space
is outside you, spinning and obscene
because life's not getting any better than that.
There are no lines in this balcony scene,
just the long drag of engines, like dirty glass
bottles in some alleyway. You've asked me
should I feel like a prostitute sometimes,
not owned by some man but those curtain veins
paid by the hour, torn and collapsed.
Your breathing is narrow,
and a wide bloom of empty space
is outside you, spinning and obscene
because life's not getting any better than that.
I heaved my lungs to you, like hot tar
gum spirit, so plural and
effuse,
and I kept myself warm and
quiet, and still
to the arrival
and to
the departure
of breath.
He had always known the abstract,
the moral,
was none but a profane
commodity.
The powers of possession
violated through his fingertips,
winding flickers down a trigger, hollowed out and the drippings
clicking like a dizzy liquid--
and the way he curled the glass to its overflow, it pulled him like a
violin string
half-tuned and cocked in its cradle, a dilated smile locked into release and
paling,
so softly
like a tired amphetamine.
And static
is a nectar,
eyes waxed and melted to a pool
of contentment, in the crackling sacrelige
that hums like an empty room.
Control is sweet, for a house
is built to home you-
the bullet
There are sparklers in the back of my throat, and you're just itching to dynamite
this joint.
(A rift of twitches, from an orange twit.)
I'm a fighting last chance, a choke-battered tongue serum
tangerine sweat retained behind a layer of
plastic wrap
and I crinkle whenever you slide into my shiver of a short-leashed field mouse
with dandelion claws stuck in its spinning wheel of a
spine.
(And by dandelion, I mean poppy.)
I always love it when I can slurp up the spasms, and you're the perfect paint thinner
to finish the job.
So load your heat into the barrel of my heart rate
twiddle your toes
and let her rip through my fucking
Current Residence: Under your floorboards, with Marcel. Favourite genre of music: Your voice. Favourite style of art: Your body. Skin of choice: Yours.