moss to (real)
morning, crushed and powderd,
wafts after noon
sheets, you pull over your pale skin
(volumetric)
so it will
still be morning to
night
to vestige of still
love
you store up in your womb
tide warm
warm warm
curled wet new
fern
//
You
have one on me
in that, you already know I love you
maybe
not like
an invitation
with calligraphy, and folded, gold
more like a child's drawing
in crayon
and big, kindergarten pencils
where you can't quite make it all out,
that
maybe
its a horse, or
maybe
it's two friends standing close,
just that the clouds are blue outlines
and the wide flat grass
it wasn’t like
what adults draw as children
(what you see selling markers or pens on tv)
who has an idea of what a stickman should be
instead
it's
just that this line is your arm
and this fat V is your legs
and this curve is your cheek
maybe
freckles, and in the corner
she has written her name, Alice K.
in dark awkward letters
although she leans
cross legged holding the drawing
(which is love)
knowingly
(for Lewis)
so am I
saying, this is what I am capable of
drawing
and this is my wonderland
intently scribbled for color's own sake
more
than why they normally make children draw.
//
they had sex
sex like you are not ready to imagine
pure, bent, peeling through walls sex
steve buschemi sex
yes drugs were involved
but so was tolstoy
so was a fish tank
his nasty dirty apartment
so were nubby water slippers
so was the vinal shower curtain
the mauve pope statue
a photoalbum full of tante andrea
it was biting and coiling
snakes sloths and mermaids
swashbuckled, unbuckled and whipped
canvas flamingos
poorly drawn
across an advanced modular addition function painted out in florescent colors
on gaudiness and in a missionary black light
smudging half dried glow in the dark all over their sex
till they looked like fingerpainted galaxies
blurring together into
steady breathing
seeping
and leaving each other into sleep
she woke up first, and realised it was not what quite she had wanted
perhaps, she consigned, it was what she had needed
but it wouldnt do
easing out of the velvet curtain
aside (he had fallen asleep not touching her, or they had drifted apart unconscious)
putting on her black panties, stepping
smelling thinner, realizing she was covered in paint
and the flickering light
pulling on her sweater, backing out of the door
turning the knob as she slowly pulled it closed so it would not make a noise
//
easy now
butter, honey,
sticky fingers glisten slick dripping down from the curl of your fat red lip
and own,
morsel, taste and heat you are
coming down above me like an omen
coming down on me heavy and breathy and full
of intent, of fuck - that you want to fuck, that you want to drive your hips onto me and
dig your nails, grab your hair and hold your breast out
as a demand
to my rising chest, and my look of longing in the mixed light - where i am yours, and yours as you please, and please - cut short.
//
thats enough for now, I'm really not getting enough good sex lately, how difficult is it?
morning, crushed and powderd,
wafts after noon
sheets, you pull over your pale skin
(volumetric)
so it will
still be morning to
night
to vestige of still
love
you store up in your womb
tide warm
warm warm
curled wet new
fern
//
You
have one on me
in that, you already know I love you
maybe
not like
an invitation
with calligraphy, and folded, gold
more like a child's drawing
in crayon
and big, kindergarten pencils
where you can't quite make it all out,
that
maybe
its a horse, or
maybe
it's two friends standing close,
just that the clouds are blue outlines
and the wide flat grass
it wasn’t like
what adults draw as children
(what you see selling markers or pens on tv)
who has an idea of what a stickman should be
instead
it's
just that this line is your arm
and this fat V is your legs
and this curve is your cheek
maybe
freckles, and in the corner
she has written her name, Alice K.
in dark awkward letters
although she leans
cross legged holding the drawing
(which is love)
knowingly
(for Lewis)
so am I
saying, this is what I am capable of
drawing
and this is my wonderland
intently scribbled for color's own sake
more
than why they normally make children draw.
//
they had sex
sex like you are not ready to imagine
pure, bent, peeling through walls sex
steve buschemi sex
yes drugs were involved
but so was tolstoy
so was a fish tank
his nasty dirty apartment
so were nubby water slippers
so was the vinal shower curtain
the mauve pope statue
a photoalbum full of tante andrea
it was biting and coiling
snakes sloths and mermaids
swashbuckled, unbuckled and whipped
canvas flamingos
poorly drawn
across an advanced modular addition function painted out in florescent colors
on gaudiness and in a missionary black light
smudging half dried glow in the dark all over their sex
till they looked like fingerpainted galaxies
blurring together into
steady breathing
seeping
and leaving each other into sleep
she woke up first, and realised it was not what quite she had wanted
perhaps, she consigned, it was what she had needed
but it wouldnt do
easing out of the velvet curtain
aside (he had fallen asleep not touching her, or they had drifted apart unconscious)
putting on her black panties, stepping
smelling thinner, realizing she was covered in paint
and the flickering light
pulling on her sweater, backing out of the door
turning the knob as she slowly pulled it closed so it would not make a noise
//
easy now
butter, honey,
sticky fingers glisten slick dripping down from the curl of your fat red lip
and own,
morsel, taste and heat you are
coming down above me like an omen
coming down on me heavy and breathy and full
of intent, of fuck - that you want to fuck, that you want to drive your hips onto me and
dig your nails, grab your hair and hold your breast out
as a demand
to my rising chest, and my look of longing in the mixed light - where i am yours, and yours as you please, and please - cut short.
//
thats enough for now, I'm really not getting enough good sex lately, how difficult is it?
