6.5.2013 • Inside of me

to you—
whom to
I surrendered much too soon and
much too much—
hush

Inside of me,
like a buzzing bee-hive
like the thrumming of rolling pebbles
                   at the wake of a wave
like the water before tea
something is stopped as it wants
    to splash the horizon of words
Inside of me,
like the lips of a sobbing child
like the door to a tornado
something is stopping my trembling bones
                from becoming words
                  my trembling words from
being said
                   from spilling out
Inside of me, you are apples
and rose-petals and thorns
and red apples and red-rosepetals
and rosethorns
and thick brushstrokes
and lazy and harsh
           brushstrokes
And inside of me
you are
and you shout with your
          ringing voice
and you grimace with your
              imperfect
            perfectly emotive
lips, and
   cheeks, and
          eyes, and
                lips and
               blood-red
                           lips
and inside of me
I am at last
       again
      moved
        after all
         this time
and— feel— feel— and
feel—no just kiss me
just kiss me and it will
be alright, kiss me and
it will be alright
I promise I don’t know
                  shit but
it will be alright

5.5.2013 • We talked too much

to a certain very dear friend—
and partly, at first perhaps, to a misendeared aquaintance;
a transformation of address.

[We talked too much]

We talked so much
but I wanted to give you
                                      a poem
I wanted to ask you to
           hold me awhile
just for a little while

We talked so much
but I wanted to write
                          you a kiss
                         on your lips
with a mortal, fading ink
—we have no need for vows
me and you (nor anyone else)

We talked too much
though it will never
                 be enough
Even when it’s too much
it will never be enough

I wanted to draw a bird
                         in your eyes
                    your irises to fly
—maybe they will, it doesn’t
have to be me,
doesn’t have to be me
but I wanted it all the
                                    same

We talked too little
& too much
& only fleetingly embraced;
next time maybe I’ll ask.

29.1.2013 • Ghost world (Love is)

a skeletal finger
writhing through the cold
transparent mist
of our visceral routines

(heart pumping
translucent
blood flowing
lightless
warm)

it comes from pain
pain produces it
suffering infuses it
with little crystal shards
of fragmented dew
ah the evening dew
that makes me sigh anew
at every glance
given or taken

it comes from pity
mercy inspires it
thanks and gratefulness
fill it up
paradoxically icy water
engulfing icepacks
from within

an instant's gaze
give or take
and the tongue is inverted
the eyes rolled
like thunder
white and terrible

white
and terrible
like a new notebook
a beautiful bunch
of papers strung together
prettily immaculate
defiled with the first drop of ink

here here
have a peek
give some take some more
charity or mercy courteousness or politeness
crunched ice rises like carbon dioxide

If love be different to lust it is in this,
That lust is hot like red iron melting the snow,
While love is cold like butterflies and moths,
And moths in the dank cellar of forgotten wines.