sex poem

Pale lips flutter alight,
Mouthing phantom praise, saxophone coos.

The flesh hung from supple
Cords, taut and handy,
Brown and luxurious.
Molded of wet clay,
Glistening and heavy, pressed
By gravity onto textured chairs.
I felt the compulsory
Touch of thickly rolled
Thighs against me.
The glint of the onyx eyes
From under lashes and hair
Signaled something like the
Bittersweet tin of semen.

Hair bobbed and framing her
Eyes like the flaps of a tee-pee.

Her lips are soft, full, and round and
Press softly into crevices and trace
Hills and valleys leaving waxy trails of
Lipstick and the texture of her lips
Like fingerprints Identifying the
Writer of the letters

I noticed the silver tin wrapper of
The Lifestyles condom you hid in
Your transparent Armani handbag.

I sat there supposing
That the foil would
Open for my use-- its
Silken present my
restraint.

A centrifugal head-spin,
A cowering dyspepsia of spiny
Thoughts and dissections
Pitches me forward.
She parts me easily
And plunges in with barbed wire
And bottle cap love.

A hateful lovemaking:
Golden fog perfume and full lips,
Shimmering gold skin appeals,
Then cuts -- bleeds
Long and red down my back.

Flesh grows hard and white around
The blackened blade in my back,
The jagged handle protrudes. Still,
I am unable to remove it.

Agony. Ripping pain,
An arched back,
A howling scowl,

A large wound, open and fresh,
Dappled by its own spittle,
Reminds me of the rich
Imported soil of a garden.

Moist and funky,
A steam bath awaits
When ground opens.
Rivulets of murky water

Collect at the bottom
Of each scoop;
Warm loam appears to pulse
With eyeless worms

That free with each dig --
Veiny, watery.
Open wounds give under fingers,
Dirty nails -- fresh soil too --

Marrow laden bones
Like thick thirsty tree roots
Stop scalpels from sinking
Straight through to China.

the subtle innuendo ending all innuendos. she is the only friend of yours, red, who thinks you're good enough for her. she is terribly beautiful and where were you all day. down by the river, with me. on the shiny meniscus skittering like a water bug, the oar legs the hull the awkward bodies, pressing out and over, making wakes enough that their dancing plays the pond's ripples into a watery fractal. watery fractal. dowse. how clean is the clarity? this water in which my oars dip. the water through which i cut, the water which slaps the hull like a drum. playing my vessel. a vessel. to be in a vessel, to be your vessel, to let you be my vessel. to enter and expose, the folds of flesh opening and closing around like the water taking in my oar, like the water buoying my blue kayak. slapping its hull, slapping its hull, playing like rhythm drum beats in various paces, various movements with the wakes and infinite universal effects of some butterfly or another. the long white translucent fish bloated on the surface. the foamed water way up the source, the warm water running down my arms as i move the oars through the clarity. how clean am i? how clean is this? the pizza i consume, feeling grit on my hands, in my mitts, from bike grease and potomac. will i die? will worms form. yet the way the soft fleshy folds of the river take me into her, slap against the bow as my arms strain towards the limestone granite white hallowed hollowed monuments washed with evening light and the inert gassy spots, the indigo, the saffron, the blues and yellow of my living.

The ice pick prods and
its icy condensed dew
Dripped drips will drip

The muscles twitch under
Their thin daisy cover.
Powerful ratcheting like
Currents over wire

The insouciant host
Hums the song she
Heard vaguely tumbling
Down from her neighbor's flat.

It reminds her to check the
Mail. The fabric stays and
She shrugs to loosen it's
Tug and the stairs pass
Under heavy hips and
Round thighs

She whistles now, remembering
Night, and squints against day.

Her stockings softly
Zip Zip Zip
The ground moves under
The sweaty
Midsummer jumper

The humid rush
Collapses in its pale
Palsy.

Fuck pop culture
And pop stars and
All its popcorn hate
Mail -- lets take a
Swing at our deep dark
Bullshitting TV generation

work to make the
Sacred trendy and tramp
All over it.

I hover and the ballast
Is released into the
Spheres and ionizes.

You sit at your desk,
Unable to look out
At the street--
The pane reflective.

Your father, a poet,
Is published.
You are certain
We haven't heard of him.

Your soft clear face,
Brushed with hair,
Crinkles in concentration,
Searches for trees.

Rumpled in boy's sheets,
Belly pressed towards sleep,
A hair wave trundles down
Neck and shoulders.

Flannel pajamas form
You and winter scenes
Of snowmen and skaters
Tickle your pale flanks.

The machine kicks in after four
Rings, pressing pleas of
Happiness onto erasable tape.
You screen every call.

You are pressured by the phone.
The vinyl bench in the Blue Metroline
Train presses your intense desire
For freedom into my back.

I sit and write a letter,
From my suburban room, forming words
that tell why I could miss
The last Metro home.

it is not a gentle
memory of you that
i bring home

it is a memory of
teeth and bruises
it is a memory of

fire and poison
words over bear
liters of scotch

portions of songs
huddled over tears
in the corner on the

floor all night
mugs of water drunk
poured; a desk, a floor

bruises to hide
coffee brewed and tea
over bread and cheese

grimaces, teeth
firm slaps anger
revulsion, raw bare

passion resonating
to the burning of
Sting all night

the fatigue held in
bones, in flesh,
the sting of hangover

i am not your friend
you are not my friend
not enough time has

passed and why doesn't
this lover just leave
in the morning you

ask me you ask and you
are so sad so tired so
strong. I watched the

muscled arms, the tense
torso, the sprung legs
round angry thighs

breasts pressing forward
held tight all day in
oppressive heavy work

still so sad so sick from
love running until the
lungs burn and cheeks red

panicked late at night
tears and music and then,
"do you know tosca, do you?

you must visit slovenia
you must understand you
must sense this kind of

love to understand why
i took the cigarette and
burned out my own face

why i am wild
why i am crazed
why i am so cruel

why you must hate me
to truly love me
to be my lover now"

i see your pretty body
and short hair with bangs
dark with lighter stripes

"this is me; this is me"
so beautiful all of it
but sad and dangerous

"most creatures under god
are harmless unless frightened,
cornered or sick," i thought.

so lovely so successful
so formidable so brilliant
yet nothing without love?

and a tender embrace
a tender kiss and a walk
to the tram station, 7b

I complain of your smell, like phlegm,
and the humid cough from between lips,
but I reek like corpse, socks, and it
all collects between my rubbing thighs.
Oh yes -- I am a man -- I am allowed
to exude like the backfire of a Packard
or the great green billows of some stout
Cuban stogie rolled tight by hand.

I want to fuck her, you say to me in the car driving home,
Waves of hair crash around your face and
Your eyes are dark under the green street lights.

I often view her slim body through my camera.
You desire to touch the glossy skin between her shoulders more than I.

Angry car-eyes reflect. I turn my mirror away from high beams.

You show me your tattoo, the one deep between your thighs,
Its welted black letters like a birthmark.

Your jeans ride low, moving eyes to the crescent belly button ring you wear;

The morning is yellow through curtains -- your skin glows.
The sheets bite me when I touch the spine.

At the warehouse, lights melt through rings of smoke.
Men in white jumpsuits Spin -- you are coronary.
Club kids freak and touch you;
You take them into the bathroom, unbutton, and show.

And me, some guy you fuck.

My apartment is heavy and clothes are strewn like flowers.

You combine and the heavy apartment collapses upon your backs.