(there's hands and a violent softness)

(there's hands

and a violent softness)

that's drowning

(and there's lucidity

which takes me under)

like a calming touch

but there's nothing to be done; 

all is desperately reaching 

for the hands that were once there

with their violent softness

(which was nothing more)

than a rouge tenderness 

of a still night

and i can still hear 

the heartbeat

(creaking)

through the ribs you 

let me cling

to when i 

(needed to

and especially when 

i 

didnt need) to

or want to

please, tell the usher

to show me to my seat; 

the stars are         ( unalig)ne d

and youve set the table

for a show. 

a study in denial

i'mm 

glad

i 

can't

hear you

speak

about me;;

i couldn't 

bear listening

to you

speak

in the

past 

tense

"theres no biting of the lips"

theres no biting of the lips

when theres a ripping

at the door

and the only proof of such an event

is the pulsating skin

that youve 

decided to leave on your flesh

and all anyone can see

is you

standing there

taking it all in

absentmindedly

and nothing will ever feel the same

because youve just gone 

through the

rebirth

and fuck all that came before. 

there is but one divine sanctity

left in this momentary torrentiality 

that is the very cataclysm 

of institutionalised absence

of regurgitated diligence

of exquisite stillness

this is but the very moment 

that will lead us to an eternity
which does not exist
in any form
except that of an endless hell

Dream
me up a separate existence;
a drowned innocence

for i have done nothing to
earn this jealousy which fills
me in a way

that is far too real.

given this full disclosure:
Fuck me until I forget who you are. 

There's a violence on the tip of my tongue

There’s a violence on the tip of my tongue:
it smells of the acidic silence

that leaves me shaking 
when your 
voice has decided it is done
filling me with music;

it tastes of the vulgar bitterness

which I feel towards
       the air that moves
                         all around you
because it gets to touch
   every             part                 of you
at all times;

and I don’t even know how to
address the way it 
sounds

because
it sounds exactly like every word
that I am way too afraid to say
because

I am afraid of what
you will say back.

There's this silence in my bones,

There’s this silence in my bones,
and a heartbeat;
it’s aggravating the tenderness in my veins,
and don’t even get me started on my blood.
My nails feel milky and way too neutral,
whereas my eyelashes sound like the ocean 
and smell of a typhoon.
My hunger yearns with the wisdom of faulty 
liver lungs and gluttonous disappointment.
My anger is distraught with a mild dose of gout 
and the insides of my thighs,
those burn with a dehydrated passion.
Whereas, my nose can see the difference
between an orange and a smile,
and my eyes can only smell from the grass
to the other greener side of life.
I can’t even register how my skin feels…
my skin isn’t talking to my brain right now.
My brain! My brain…all it knows is sadness and sex
and it is receiving too much of one,
and not enough of the other,
and the one does nothing for me except make my
knees shallow,
and the other leaves me cold
and tired and awake.

I do not want to be awake,
nor do I want to be asleep.

there were eyes in the flowers

there were eyes in the flowers

& they followed them everywhere
As they made their way through
fields o' grey
                        and the crossed arms
of silent palm readers;

           somewhere along the road
the ocean started whispering
the memories of past
mid-noon deliriums and scented

                        opiumden opera singers

and the virgin mary was hanging
her flowerydirty underwear
topless,

while the town children were discovering
their ability to sin
peeking in on her,
with their hands somewhere down
their front,

making the silent palm readers job
impossible,

if it weren't for the giant
enormous monstrous sighs
of momentary clarity and reality,
the ocean would be still,
the grass would never sway,
and the desert would be just
another pile of sand,

lifeless & motionless.

Erotic Study no. 1

pulling up your skirt,
i stopped at the corner of Fifth and Broadway,

right where your thigh was,
and i allowed myself for the world to linger
as i pressed the back of my hand
against your thigh,

and all the birds of the wild
chirped as you moaned,

and i continued pulling up your skirt,
only to find that you forgot your underwear;
i searched everywhere for them,
under the bed,
under the house,
under a few misplaced clouds you had
in the corner of the room,
even under your mother's dress,
but she wasn't wearing any either.

then i turned you around
so that i could really look at you,
and i found an orchid growing
on a mole right next to your
beautiful lips,

shying away from me behind
a beautiful tuft of fur;
the damned sight was too much for
a grown man
to handle

i started to cry.

you told me to please hum your
second favorite song,
because your most favorite song
was saved for the next time,

and so i hummed and hummed
and hummed,

"hmmmm..hmmmmmhmmmmm"

and god damn it,
i'm still humming.