beauty, love, lust, poetry, women

Kiss Your Bones

I’m not the animal groom

Seeking to keep you in one place

Frozen forever

No, I drag your bones from

The depths

Hold them to my skin

Lend some warmth

Until a heart flowers

Skin breathes

And you become,

Supple, playful,

Back arched to receive

And I will shower you

In glistening filth

Awash with disreputable

Celebration

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beauty, love, poetry, women

Warm night

A string of lights

Coiled like DNA of angels

Warm night

And she’s upstairs having a bath

Reading

Something complex and syncopated

Is

Playing on the computer

Because who listens to a stereo anymore?

but I’ve a mind to turn it off

Listen to the moment breathe instead

And a hard week behind me

Another ahead

But this chair is firm under me

And I need so little to be happy

(That joke writes itself

I am sure)

Still, on call,

And do it without complaint

Different with her,

And even the flaws serve as good

Instructions

The sound of her footsteps

On the stairs

Putting the kettle on

Book closes

Opens again

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beauty, love, masculinity, poetry, women

Whether dream

Streets turned to mirrors

Marking time with cigarettes

And in my head

I’m twisting you to points of

Sublime, complicated pleasure

Being smart is sometimes

As much a burden as being aroused

The world mocks the man

Who owns himself

Good

Bad

But my kisses are sweet

And before the world calls me

Home

One last kiss

Whether dream

Whether real

To send us off

To whatever comes

Next

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beauty, love, lust, poetry, women

Driving Me Mad

Grounded by the weight of the

Unresolved lust

Slow and heavy

Almost adolescent with irritated

Acceptance

Coiled and ready to bite

Spit and clutch until

The poison drains away

Never more alive than when

I lean into my hunger

Bend you over and make you gasp

Raw and impolite

As ever, gentle ferocity

And clumsy with release

I struggle to breathe with it

Aware and awake,

Sullen animal with your scent in my nostrils

And, baby girl, it’s driving me

Mad.

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beauty, love, men, poetry, women

Coffee, with demons.

Being good

Practices

Magic spells to ward old devils away

Being able to leave your phone unattended,

Without the low hum of fear

Running nails down your spine

But no one notices

Because you’re supposed to

And no cookies for the bad boy

Who is being a good man,

Coffee with my devils,

Black, no sugar

But he ladles dessert spoons worth,

Into his

She’s asleep,

Could go through and tell her,

But no, goodness is simpler

And I don’t beg

There is no notion of getting lucky

There is

There isn’t

I know magicians

And she told me about

Compassionate compromise

So, in the wan hours of morning,

Sat and talking,

With my demons,

Educated to a point of refinement,

It is almost invisible.

And the only things cut are

The horns from his head,

But sometimes,

They still sting.

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beauty, love, men, poetry

Paternal Column

All now is father,

Bear the pangs

With aplomb

Voice in the throes of

A roar and how much better

To be heard than to find

No one was listening in the first place

Say less, act more,

A little more kindness and gentle ferocity of spirit,

Here, no hope but action.

And when you find weariness

Has the force of gravity,

I will be your column.

No matter how deep the cracks

Go inwards

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