Truth is not free

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Moonlight

Did I ever tell you

she tastes of licorice?

And sometimes French brandy

the hairs on her arm

of sunlight

the nape of her neck

a night time covenant

when she sleeps

I long to unwind the ebony coils of her hair

run my fingers along the parabel of her shoulder blades

finding symmetry.

To know a woman

to love a woman

you must forgive your impatience

to possess what cannot be tamed or owned

you must relinquish the idea

you’re ever going to be in control

she is a faithless word seeking light

her tongue thirsting for your nectar

if you look away too long she will move on

to another flower

such is the delicacy of love

ephemeral and without weight

it skips like a hungered heart

for the right claimant.

it took me

walking on my knees through burning desert

composing words of love in my mind

attuned to her ficklety like

a cage without hinges

I drink in the sight of her

turning a corner, magnified in three way mirrors

like harpsichord strung hummingbird

lasting just a season.

In the night she sleeps

motionlessly

a cool blade

between sheets

slicing finely

reminder of a child’s memory

the Italian store and how thinly

they carved meat

till held to light it appeared

translucent

as a moth

blue and changing

against the moon

Still water

It’s not the point or purpose

Making yourself in the image of

Something temporal

Perfect lives

In the ragged hem

Not the seamstress who knows by default

The straight line

We are

Twice turned around the earth

From that first time

I beheld you then

As I saw my own reflection

And all that was lost within me

Fell away as debris

A shining soul

So often tormented by the world’s love

Of tarnish

Easily we fell again and again

Against sharp corners and places unfit

Only in the surround of one another

A measure of peace

Never something easy to describe

To others it may appear

Dull and ordinary

Not worth adjective

And as I hold you near me in blackening night

Feeling age settle like freed dust

The ache of what could have been and what was not

Has less power in this soft reverie

Where consolidation is a tired but gentle thought

So different from that tight umbelical youth

Lost in the still of an eternal motion

If I could

Reach back

Change or alter

Our trajectory

I may have asked

The stars to divine

An altered course

Only to bring us closer

Till nothing

Not even the barrier of our separate being

Could thwart the hope

We are all and one

Spinning in silver threads

Through time

And memory

As lights catch

Like glass

On still water

As love settled and stayed

Forever

Salem — hijacked amygdala

We are not made in the image of our keeper but divested of iron roots fly liberated into soaken cloud joining specter who, watching sees our folly silly human toil petty argument, for the sake of greed What the corn, what the seed? Shall save us from subversion by our bashless vanity this possessed […]

via Salem — hijacked amygdala

New face

close up colors female flower
Photo by Rodolfo Clix on Pexels.com

Good girls don’t spill the skinny

spit, instead of swallow

extinction demands a pound of flesh

leap from windows, arms akimbo, preferring air to cubicle hollow

good girls don’t defecate, chew with mouth open, scratch, pick, pull apart

rotting articulate

good girls make breakfast constipated, and suck your morning off just right, handing you the Listerine

good girls pretend tight jeans are comfy, Baise-moi against a public lavatory is joy, and you look tasty at 6am

good girls close the door when you leave for work and remove their good faces

unravel the facade like a guerilla loads guns

hiding disappointment along with amphetamine trace

a sound like the whisper before fire starts

 

A last look around your voided heart

that’s where I marked the days with ink

that’s where I lost a virgin’s dream

he’s you and he’s me and he’s the girl who said she wouldn’t repeat history

and they’re all up there on your shelf of ex-lovers, plastic Golems in caliph

i’m the dumb fuck who gave them the stage, hot lights, ravenous applause, hymens shores

(it was rather funny to pretend several times to lose the same thing, easy to bleed when you clench your teeth)

you made your bed, she lights a match

pours diesel cocktail, nitro swath

goodbyes are for survivors, with swivel grace

stepping ash into ash, Dormez bien

emptied years, new face.

Protected: Des souvenirs fantômes

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Conversation with a bigot

Conversation with a Bigot / my latest on Hijacked Amygdala.

hijacked amygdala

grunge-aesthetic-tumblr-girls-Favim.com-3855590

She’s got red-tights on and she’s got her nose in a book. It’s pretty a-typical.

The Bigot watches her drink her hot chocolate (with Almond milk, hold the whip cream, nix the vanilla) until she picked up her copy of SMITTEN this is what love looks like / poetry for women by women.

The Bigot made clucking sounds as he reads from the table over, the front cover of the poetry anthology written by 120 lesbian and bi poets and artists and eventually, unable to restrain himself, the bigot came over to her table (uninvited, as bigots usually are).

“Young Lady. Do you realize homosexuality is a crime against humanity?” He proffers in the same calm tone he might have asked; “Do you really like Hot Chocolate on a 80 degree day?”

She might be a little vain and a little shy. She might not like putting her face in…

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