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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love, poetry, women

Ask

Please

Ask me something

About myself

Something complex and personal

I’m not carrying baggage

Past my allowance

But sometimes

I just want to feel

I’m not invisible

Disposable

A cuddly toy who sits bitter watches

Ask me

Something

Anything

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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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love, masculinity, poetry

Strings of light and shadow

There are moments

Hung suspended

A string of lights

Still lit,

Long past the season,

A few bulbs, dead with time

But sat there,

Bathed in a carnival of light,

All festive colours

Even the cheer has a dim memory,

But the shadows matter as much

As the light they oppose,

And between them both

I sit

And hold your hand

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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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