(no subject)
Instead of chickens or plums,
we have a lemon framed in orange
and a dream of internet riches.
we have a lemon framed in orange
and a dream of internet riches.
(no subject)
Haiku might do it now and then
but I'd hate to make them quotidian.
So on nights we're short of cash,
I can pretend I'm Ogden Nash.
but I'd hate to make them quotidian.
So on nights we're short of cash,
I can pretend I'm Ogden Nash.
(no subject)
Someday a sonnet,
maybe I'll be Tennyson
but haikus are short
maybe I'll be Tennyson
but haikus are short
(no subject)
You may not think you like sunlight,
but when you're sleeping,
a mote comes to greet your cheeks,
and you seem like old friends.
Your cheek glows,
the mote glows,
and I stand in the doorway
Even if your waking eyes are sad or lost,
In the sunlight, under heavy lids,
You snooze angelically
but when you're sleeping,
a mote comes to greet your cheeks,
and you seem like old friends.
Your cheek glows,
the mote glows,
and I stand in the doorway
Even if your waking eyes are sad or lost,
In the sunlight, under heavy lids,
You snooze angelically
(no subject)
instead of cranes you'll
have poems, and when I'm done
you'll be a sultan
have poems, and when I'm done
you'll be a sultan
girl+ambien=girl wanting you desperately
well, girl anytime = girl wanting you desperately, but for some reason being drugged out of shot of short-term memory stretches out moments and it is easier to write. Pot did the same thing. Anyway, I want to move beyond the physiology of this particular happening and into caressing you verbally in ways wholly inappropriate for the workplace.
boy, I want you.
I want you fully and hours and hours dawn and dusk bleeding into Something Else. I can't figure out what it IS, still, you know, some sort of alchemy and affinity of metaphor. I love that you don't hate my misconceptions about the world, at least understand why they're there. I think of the allegory of the cave. And I had a moment a few weeks ago where it dawned on me in the middle of a self-rigteous streak that all of my ideas about sex are probably not right. I mean, I think some of them are, the broad ribbons of muscle that form the Foucaultian machinery, yes, I think I get that. There is a lot I don't get, I admit that, too. But I struggle violently with it, because it's violent stuff. But I mean more that I like learning from you as well as preachypeachypreaching.
I just...I can't even interpret it, I can't fit it into any previous experience of my life, or what I thought life would be. Or maybe not. Maybe edges of stories. Off the pages. The wild night life of Narnia, speakeasies in the forest with round dwarf whores and centaurs fucking unicorns. Somewhere in that the hero and the heroine and the junkie pixies. And Alice. The Lion and the Unicorn..."Come tell me how you live?" Really, I mean how do you put all of that into just caressing my jaw? So that if my pillow mimics it I am magic-flashed to this vault of love-footage. Like you can take me there to the precipice of all the stories that didn't end in horror.
And I just ripple ripple ripple and I can't understand my body anymore, but when I'm with you I understand it more, mapped in something finer. Peeling layers I just want to sink a few inches inside your skin, where there is tide and moonrocks and I go crazy wanting you, insatiable kisses, kisses too savagely Victorian and Empirically postmodern to write books about, kisses with smooth waxy covers and pages yet to be cut. And slitting the pages as I touch you more it will take me so long to read it all, but I don't care. Any existence of hardwired desire is the evidence I need before I will kiss volumes more.
Angel, I need to hear about how you want me. I miss it. More than I miss you? No, I will have both at once. I will snake around you ice-cream sated and demure make you tell me just how epic it was/is/will be.
Sweet boy. I love you with lollypop twisted allusions and a great reverence for your will to have me. And hopes that your unexpected bargains have thrilled and will increase.
boy, I want you.
I want you fully and hours and hours dawn and dusk bleeding into Something Else. I can't figure out what it IS, still, you know, some sort of alchemy and affinity of metaphor. I love that you don't hate my misconceptions about the world, at least understand why they're there. I think of the allegory of the cave. And I had a moment a few weeks ago where it dawned on me in the middle of a self-rigteous streak that all of my ideas about sex are probably not right. I mean, I think some of them are, the broad ribbons of muscle that form the Foucaultian machinery, yes, I think I get that. There is a lot I don't get, I admit that, too. But I struggle violently with it, because it's violent stuff. But I mean more that I like learning from you as well as preachypeachypreaching.
I just...I can't even interpret it, I can't fit it into any previous experience of my life, or what I thought life would be. Or maybe not. Maybe edges of stories. Off the pages. The wild night life of Narnia, speakeasies in the forest with round dwarf whores and centaurs fucking unicorns. Somewhere in that the hero and the heroine and the junkie pixies. And Alice. The Lion and the Unicorn..."Come tell me how you live?" Really, I mean how do you put all of that into just caressing my jaw? So that if my pillow mimics it I am magic-flashed to this vault of love-footage. Like you can take me there to the precipice of all the stories that didn't end in horror.
And I just ripple ripple ripple and I can't understand my body anymore, but when I'm with you I understand it more, mapped in something finer. Peeling layers I just want to sink a few inches inside your skin, where there is tide and moonrocks and I go crazy wanting you, insatiable kisses, kisses too savagely Victorian and Empirically postmodern to write books about, kisses with smooth waxy covers and pages yet to be cut. And slitting the pages as I touch you more it will take me so long to read it all, but I don't care. Any existence of hardwired desire is the evidence I need before I will kiss volumes more.
Angel, I need to hear about how you want me. I miss it. More than I miss you? No, I will have both at once. I will snake around you ice-cream sated and demure make you tell me just how epic it was/is/will be.
Sweet boy. I love you with lollypop twisted allusions and a great reverence for your will to have me. And hopes that your unexpected bargains have thrilled and will increase.