Do You Want Me to Leave?
tied to bedposts,
frustration grips like any hit
but misses the mark
every time you enter the room.
ruthless as any tearjerker
comfort comes then blows
me off on a whim,
on a sideways glance.
perhaps i’m not comprehending
the depth of your affection but
it leads me to thinking
of the call of the wild
where freedom’s just another
word for fighting or fucking
you can sit there and fondle
the edges of your penthouse
but you don’t need my
permission to masturbate.
do you want me to leave?
as my ovaries open to soothing
tones of rolling stones i want you to
eat me like a three course dinner,
pound me like a piano till
my pelvic floor can take no more
because when i cum i cum
with muscles that undulate
like a caterpillar.
and when you come,
it’s closer than breathing.
A Hopeful Pome
why is suicide so sexy on the page
or in legends, but when our children
are necking themselves my guts weaken
and my brow grow cold.
why are junkies, so cool in the movies,
so tragically beautiful but when one’s dying
in my bed i just want to scream
and there’s not enough washing powder in the world
to scrub my linen clean.
and bile that is spilt
on a page, on a stage,
does nothing to cleanse but
just add to collective
woe and knowing,
shaping my thoughts into words,
does not make them any more palatable.
being talked down by the soothing tones of
john malkovich’s speech impediment
i realize that love is not the answer,
nor is pain, just acceptance,
acceptance and hope.
they met in a land of missed connections
in the year of bad timing.
he came from clouds or
mountains, high on expectations
but jangling with tambourine memories
and too much energy.
she revealed herself one sentence at a time.
he was never still but very deep,
so deep she stuck to the shallows
for fear of drowning. “i’m not used
to traveling such long distances”
she said, making him ache in places
he had been ignoring for too long a time.
laws of nature are elusive,
when they danced, they danced to music
with a strong melody line and an
irregular beat. and when he fell apart
she patched him up, but the pieces were
deeply broken, some left behind with
old friends, in pawn shops and in
cemeteries, so she never really found him.
and when it wasn’t easy she grew hard,
falling again into a well of bad habits. while
he searched in vain for a lifeline all he
found were more needles.
there was some suspicion of a demons plot,
but forgetting the rhetoric she tucked him
under a cautious blanket, on the longest night
and pretending the ease of an opera diva
watched his closing credits roll.