blue duvet part deux

i am folded in this
dusty, old duvet

cast neatly in
messy piles of
aged cloth
and teeth

held dear and
useless

handed over thoughtlessly
for a dime,

a memory mishandled

Too Soon To Tell

I can feel it --

I am one within skin.

I am winning.

Goodbye's too good a word

all roads are closed --

could i have done better?
i'm not your passenger

anymore

no more grey skies

disappearing in your

charcoal eyes

hope you found someone

to help you disappear

to keep her mouth shut

and pick up

the early-morning
pieces of you

scattered girl,

stupid girl

with senseless fingertips

but your cut was so exact...

(you gave the knife its name)

me, i've lost all accuracy

my hands ache at the sight

i'm not your passenger anymore

And something flickered for a minute...

Time leans

like the books on my shelf

I dream about you,

But you always

fade

into someone else...

You are solid,

I am the variable;

We are complementary

Flesh and blood --

Body and life

But without me,

you are only skin

And without your containment --

Anarchy!

I run,

I drain

and become

a puddle on the floor...

bite

"Only there is shadow under this red rock

(come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you..."

".......I could not speak, and my eyes failed, I was

neither living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

looking into the heart of light, the silence."

--from The Wasteland, by T.S. Eliot

fistfuls thick in the heart

what does destiny owe

two souls apart?

i cannot touch that which

i will not allow myself to

belive in --

familiar, yet foreign:

a delicate delicacy

your fragility

intimidates me

have i forgotten how

to care for

such rarities?

my love is large

and rough

difficult to swallow

i am only

surviving

to prove i am

strong enough

to finish this

bite

prime

here are my feelings:
naked and crude with ripeness,

dripping like uncooked
meat


my love is too big for these hands --
my eyes, too small to see.

i lack the instruction -- the skill...

the stench of this sense
beats down my defense

here are my feelings:
naked and crude with ripeness,
dripping
like uncooked meat

we'll eat the fruit (if it's covered in sugar)
we'll eat the fruit (if it's covered in sugar)

here are my feelings
i present to you:
shivering and vulnerable -
naked and crude
from indifference -
rotten off the slab;
stripped
like uncooked
meat

what are you waiting for?
dig in --
eat.

Malaria

a deep well of blue --

i promise

i never, ever knew.

Encircling

Black tattoo encircles the stark simplicity of my pallid arm
Much like your warm darkness wraps around
My reed-like waist
Grayscale contacts confused darkness
I smile at both patterns
On my arm and waist

Unseen rain comforts the bone-white windowpane
Running smooth and ample, soothing its
Wooden uncertainty
A secret cycle gently builds
-- I am cradled in its circle --

I miss the rain nearly everyday
I forget its steady, stoic serenity
Its laughter pattering the walls
Its trailing shadow stalking the halls of
My depth

Fading tattoo shadows the transparency of my reddened skin
Much like I can feel the mark of an awkward lock around
My shallow waist
Doubt shouts over lonely rests
I shake in all conquests:
Real faces and imaginary life

Frozen rain contorts the dreamy, dormant chain
Scalding, scorned, and simple; sifting its blunder
An idiot’s request
Secret lovers slowly raze
-- I am trapped in this circle --

I see the snow nearly every day
I forget your mood so slovenly
Your talk dispelling the gloom
Your failing silhouette passing in favor of
the Real Me

Cord

If only I could stimulate
These nerves and passageways:
Erase all thoughts of
Absent days

Twist the cord
To cure the child.

Your voice -
simultaneously
Compassionate and
Irate -
Travels through
Passageways,
Disturbing the circuitry,
Only altering plans...

If only I could - gently - break
The grasp of
Your holy hands
And come out
Slick and half alive --
A veritable Christ on crutches.

I’d like to write you a letter;
Words -- you can keep them
On paper
They’re softer,
And much safer
Than straight-forward,
Wet and squishy,
slick off the tongue,
Fanning frames of mind
Fanning the flames of passion
undermined.