Kisses, Candle Wax

The deference, romantic, of an artist to their muse.

She's the statue that grows from stone on her own accord, 

unlinked to human ruse.

As I stray further away I feel the sun slip through my fingers.

The heat does not burn my hands, but somehow my heart still tingles.

The memory of my cheeks red-kissed, feverish, 

malingers.

The honey burned like whiskey but it could not set me ablaze.

Yet this is the mellow warmth that melts sugar, skin, and candle wax.

Enough was the temptation for pen to lay itself on paper,

to willingly spill ink from the glass, on her dress.

Dilated pupils and open petals, giving way to a heaving chest.

Sticky kisses, heat-hazed roses, licked my lips and laid to rest.

The sun swims ever farther from our place along the shore,

And with bright strings it plays the tune of raindrops on a glass door.

About Birds

Why do you keep me here?

What are you trying to prove

To yourself…so stiff and stubborn…yes.

Isn’t it? 

That only men can clip the wings off of birds.

It’s not the truth but you insist

on imitation

of all the other keepers that revolved the door before you

in our prison.

And I remember an ugly vision,

wretched words and rough limbs on olive trees.

No longer am I crushed beneath you,

But I still sometimes succumb to

the pale reverence of that which is beautiful.

Pools Can't Carry Rivers

I'm completely useless 

at anything other than friends.

I can't do good for anyone beyond that,

and that's alright,

thats fair.

I was just not made for the rest.

It's not inside me, my shallow depths

are clear and blue, but shallow nonetheless.

Throughout the listless pools and restless waters

I am fine as I was made.

Regardless of how I would like to,

I'm an argument that holds no water.

I'll remain a leaking pail, and spill

your feelings,

all, like rain.

When the tears slow down and the ripple's settled,

When the tide has fallen once again,

Back at you, what is reflected?

Is it your face?

Black Crystal

Something lurks in the call of night,

Transparent and black glass.

Stacked of crystalline thin bones

breaking apart the light.

Glittering sounds under the rain, it's singing

Songs of eons and love and pain.

Long along had it cast far the stinging

world that bore them, and bound the chain.

When the ink begins to bleed the paper

And the morning begins to pry, 

crawling its way along the horizon. 

Mischievous, charming, they crack a smile.

At night the black, bright, crystal howls.

Deep in their castle, upon the clouds.

And they're breathing whispers come near the daybreak,

sunlight's performing, dapper, devilish heartache.

Cinnamon Tea

You say your lips are bleeding and you can’t tell why.

But there you go, you keep

Licking my heart up from the blade side.

You say you’re burning up, with feverish cheeks.

When your lips bear the stain of liquor,

And your tears crawl down my drain like rancid cinnamon tea.

You say your skin runs cold as the linens fall, unfold... 

But somehow you suppurate warmth, insistent, onto the mattress. 

And you cling to the knife, affection virulent, rife, uninvited.

Violent.

Then you blossom on my skin,

reddened, purple, crystalline. 

The songs won't play without glitching.

 I realized tonight:

That it is not wrong of me to be afraid,

That is it not wrong of me to be affected.

To think about you

To still think of you. 

To breathe heavy, to speak of my memories and feel

as shivers and shakes slowly crawl from within my bones.

I shall not be embarrassed, I mustn't.

Because it was not a simple heartbreak

for me to heal from quickly and forget,

it was horror, it was pain, your screams pulsating in my brain.

The desire to vomit out my heart and my guts,

to say goodbye to any piece of me that could feel,

is nothing of which I shall draw any shame.

And I needn't accept the blame.

I realized the guilt you paint on me is not my business.

You who cannot see the role you play in your own misery.

If I was so evil, why am I so afraid?

I realized the sting is not love but lightning.

The quick heart beat and the electric static, making my hair stand up on end.

I am not embarrassed to feel afraid even though I am stronger.

And the reason you hang around my mind is not any love but unfinished business,

the me in your arms is but a ghost of past days. Of you and I, all that remains

is the splintered bones and skin I've shed.

Love from Loxosceles

Your slender fingers weave the web

As the ring-tone rings I lie in bed.

Hostile whispers from the telephone,

When the key clicks the door, say:

Honey, I’m home.

A poem I do not remember,

A room that I cannot forget.

When I burn the papers they spill, under the bed

letters I have no memory of writing

whisper my name, songs laud and dread.

As they sing me to sleep, caress me,

their small grips force my head.

A heavy hand spins threads entwining, holding 

me down, I'm Gulliver.

When your call disrupts the telephone

Open your throat from the depths and roar

Your belligerent pleas of affection.

On your knees weeping the contradiction

of a lover feeding on prey's affliction.

 

A martyr preaching polluted prayers,

whose words of love are built like fetters.

Kiss my husk and bring it tender,

ever closer to the ember.

Somewhere you linger in seclusion.

Arachnid, languid, lilliputian.

From death-like stupor our lips turn blue.

Split apart your ribs and coo:

Darling, I Love You.