vodka dream in a florida room

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.

I linger.

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.