I’m No Good At Writing Love Poems

If I told you that I felt Jupiter’s warmth on my lips,

heard the beaming rhythms that the moon breathes,

saw a celestial glow exploding away from your

body, each and every time you were with me,

you would tell me that I was crazy, shy away from

even a touch that was meant to tell you how much

I enjoy you near.

I don’t tell you that your laugh reminds me of the

first time I heard a love song, that would be silly,

then you’d know that I loved you. No, I don’t tell

you that. Instead, I tell you how much I love being

around you. I tell you, how much I enjoy your energy,

how much your mind makes mine smile, the way

you kiss my shoulder, my cheek, my heart,

the way you pretend that love is something that

you don’t need right here with me, or right now.

It’s weird, but I love that too, it provides me with

a challenge, something to look forward to when

you finally do tell me that you look at me the way

I look at you, which is the very way I look at life,

piecing meaning to breath,

a single breath that escapes itself from lung, travels

from the outside air back inside me, carving molecules

of oxygenated blood flow, moving itself like fresh

rain through body, blood stream pace its steps like

soldiers in the army, a vital process automatically

moving me forward as air circulates through nose

to mouth, from mouth to lung.

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Wet Dreams and Poetry

Poetry is like pink bubble gum stuck on downtown sidewalks,

smoggy gloomed skies of dirty browns, greys, overcast grime in clouds,

a ripped hymen, pierced bloody red with cherry JELL-O Pudding goo,

tickled armpits, frenzied childish laughter, giggles cuddled in guts,

a lover’s hairy animal-like arms, chest, back, warm wax ripping skin bare.

Poetry is like a ménage a trois, two pairs of lips available to suck you ripe,

masturbation, gentle moans and mmmmm’s drowned out by splattering rain,

a backache massaged by calm hands, rubbing shoulders to ass, ass to spine,

two full rounded breasts filled with blood and milk, heart and body.

Poetry is like a balding man, receding hairlines like sand and waves, grainy

shells shattered against California shorelines, man hungry sharks, woman

hungry men exposing themselves to children in playgrounds and school yards,

small cocks baked in scorching simmering sunshine burning flesh to brown.

Poetry is like used toilet paper glued-stuck beneath high-heeled shoes, dirty

public restrooms wet from piss stained yellow tile, snot plastered green against

cold hard floors, tears poured out onto toilet seat covers and sanitary napkins,

tampons drenched heavily by poems that encourage wet dreams.

Sleepless

Touch me in the dark,

spread my legs apart,

brown thighs draped

in crimson sheets,

an opening as deep

as the parted red sea.

Texture my skin with

your lips, haunt my

flesh closely with your

deep warm breaths,

trace comforting

whispers against

my fears, tell me

that you like the

way I taste, tell me

that you like to feel

my tiny plump breasts

against your chest,

tell me, tell me, tell me,

just tell me that you love me,

give me a reason to

really feel you inside me.

Menmaatre Seti

Who made you?

Who cloaked your flesh in stained coffee gravel?

Who pieced your squinted monolid eyes apart

bridged by nose and brow?

Who splashed tiny suntanned freckles

against your cheekbone?

Who molded your lips,

two honey tinted poets

engrossed softly together,

embraced by words

recited smoothly like a kiss?

Who gave you that smile

etched finely upon your face,

like the sun peeking below the clouds

and smog before it sets?

Who took the time the chisel muscle

finely beneath your flesh?

Who sculpted your face

to be the exact replica of the Pharaoh Ramses?

Who tooled your calves

and carved the simplest arches

and docile dimples hidden mildly

against your flesh?

Who made you into a man?

The Way a Man Loves

Have you ever examined a man

piece-by-piece, limb to limb,

noticing his naked jawline,

the way it moves to form words

as his mouth opens and closes,

telling you that he needs you,

the way his eyes latch onto you,

trapping you inside his stare,

a strange prison filled with

micro-combative organisms

chaining you motionlessly to

his soulless grey walls.

He undresses you, burning

away muscle tissue from bone,

revealing the purples trailing

along your unoxygenated blood,

exposing organs painted lifeless

abandoned outside an icy cold body.

He drains you empty, eats you

whole, sinks his teeth into your

soul, leaves you lifeless, an emptiness

fueled by love, a barrenness blackened

and seared by his possession over

the frigid frail breaths you breathe.

A Woman Cadaver

Men swarm me like flies sucking the sweet nectar from a corpsed mango core, undress me brilliantly in rosy honey bare skin. They rip sticky fabric from off my flesh with their eyes, tasting me through my cherry tinged scent, lips bitten into dimly, stretching the soft elastic brim where teeth and tongue meet. They pull me onto their rugged built erection induced by the moist warmth of my mouth, a tang of raw meat blemished by a whiff of

saliva.

I am worn, undone by their tumultuous girth, teased and strung along, weakening my ability to perform powerfully as a wild animal in heat, no longer engaged by the back and forth motion of our stares. They tie me up, shackled to a torched branchless tree, sot and hazy ash paint my complexion dark, marking the areas they chafe purple with their naked hands. They powder me softly with their wooly tongues, speaking murmurs into my mouth as quickly as their commitment to my body escapes them.