Memories are smoking guns
in the hands of girls
with black painted nails
and curse words on their lips.
The music is dark
She and I are in this room to be desired.
Gas to the flames of our self-destruction
The trust fund gypsy dances in jeans
precariously slipping off her hip
toward the floor.
She has a tattoo for every obsession
likes the taste of blood on the blade.
She offers a glance, steps toward,
gets close enough that we
almost graze lips.
The sharp pain of electricity coursing
assaulting, violating, all sensation.
Her desire. Lust and punishment.
Salvation in every orgasm.
She wants the lash,
my lips upon her wounds.
I am raw nerves,
slipping in and out of identities.
Bones twisted to form erotic fixations.
Missionary times are long past
Awkwardness, a flash of light
Tonight, only I and the moon rage
Darkness, driving me toward sanity’s edge.
These four walls are anywhere, always.
Paintings of expressionist abortion stories
and portraits of a crooner,
who once upon a time,
set loins and Atlantic City on fire.
Carnal skull is full of lover’s memories
Lust, demands spring must come before dawn
Tongue seeks out lips as
the butterflies of July flutter and twist.
Her body is my sole narcotic.
Toes to thighs. Hips to eyes.
She unbuttons the boundaries.
Rejoices in the scattered explosions,
tricks of lights.
Switchblade tongue. Welcoming chest.
Midnight is without dimensions.
The center is breath. We are without shape.
I've been baptized twice
Neither time did I close my eyes or shout.
We're composed of white noise
Heaven is stars and impetuous voices.
Lies are innocent when laced with moonlight.
Her body is love torn, a canvas of scars and tattoos,
places and lovers.
She wasn’t always an open wound.
She was once worshiped.
Then gave into wanton words of sun and moon.
She is a fire that burns, still singing the songs of the elements,
dancing until the heathens believe.
Detached from future and past.
Ours is a bed of riddles.
Eroticism breaks apart in the sunlight.
I am hers when the moon is encircled by flames.